Between The Dunes And The Sea
by r4ven3
Summary: Another Harry & Ruth tale. This one is set after the end of S10, with Ruth having not returned to London at the beginning of S8. What will she find there when she does? Is Harry even alive? 23 chapters in all.
1. Chapter 1

_You left me, sweet, two legacies, –  
A legacy of love  
A Heavenly Father would content,  
Had He the offer of;_

 _You left me boundaries of pain  
Capacious as the sea,  
Between eternity and time,  
Your consciousness and me._

"You Left Me" - by Emily Dickinson

* * *

Boston, Massachusetts, USA – early December 2012:

Emma looked up to see that the line of people now wound past the section on New Fiction, turning back on itself, and then past the Business, and all the way through the vast section on Cookery and into Children's Books. She guessed that there were at least forty people waiting to have their copy of _Remembering Michael_ signed by the author. _That's me_ , Emma thought, acknowledging her own smug sense of achievement. _I'm the author they've come to see_. She was about to welcome her next reader when her eye caught a familiar face, and not so much a face as the back of a man's head - medium height, balding fair hair which curled at the ends, wide shoulders, stocky build. Emma felt her face flush, and for a moment she stopped breathing, her eyes drawn to the rather well dressed figure browsing in the War section. "It can't be," she said aloud.

"I bought a copy for myself and one for my mother," the mid-thirties woman said cheerily, and somewhat impatiently. "I'm Anna and my mother's name is Naomi."

Emma heard her, but she could not look away from the man browsing in War. Then he turned. This man had blue eyes and a thin nose, and he was much too young. He couldn't have been any older than late forties, and when he caught her staring at him he smiled, and then quickly looked away. The disappointment weighed on her like a wet coat.

"Ms Ruth?" the voice in front of her desk said, drawing her attention back to the book signing.

"I'm sorry," Emma said, smiling apologetically at the woman who'd introduced herself as Anna. "I thought I saw someone I knew."

Anna smiled, placing her two copies of _Remembering Michael_ open on the table in front of Emma. "One is for Anna and the other is for Naomi. I can't stop thinking about this book, and I know my mother will enjoy it also. I've told her all about it."

Emma quickly signed each copy, closed the books, and handed them back to Anna with a smile. The gesture was meant to discourage long discourse with her readers, but Emma often ignored the rules in favour of asking her readers what they'd enjoyed most about the book. Not this day, though. This day, thanks to the anonymous middle-aged man, she was distracted and troubled. It was not who he was which troubled her; rather, it was who he wasn't.

She smiled up at the next person who placed their copy of her book on the table, opening it to the frontispiece. "I love this book," the woman prattled. "I find Grace to be so .. stoic, and as for Michael … I can see him in my mind, and then I look at my husband and wonder why he can't be more like your Michael." Emma smiled as she signed her name. The image of the man who'd been browsing in the War section still floated before her eyes, but it wasn't that man who distracted her. It was another man, a man whom she knew she'd never see again. She lifted her eyes to the next person in line, but this time, due to a heavy heart, her smile was forced.

* * *

London – mid March 2013:

Malcolm Wynn-Jones lived for spring and summer, not that he was terribly out-doorsey, because he wasn't. Despite his mother having passed in the early autumn, he still adopted her view of the seasons. Spring and summer were both equally welcome, while autumn was barely bearable, and winter was frequently off the chart. During the cold weather Amelia Wynn-Jones had suffered with her arthritis, and on the very coldest of days her chilblains had been so bad that she'd had to resort to wearing woolen gloves, even while she ate and slept. Even the fancy heating system which Malcolm had had installed only took the edge off her discomfort, and when she'd entered the hospice during her last months of life, she'd suffered so much that her doctor had increased her pain medicine. With spring on the doorstep, Malcolm resolved to get out more, maybe take a daily walk in the fresh air, lift the bulbs and replant, buy some more bulbs and plant them. He smiled to himself and went back to the coding which had already eaten up the weeks since Christmas – his first Christmas without his mother.

When first the doorbell rang he'd assumed it was one of the warning sounds on his system. He did a quick check, and nothing appeared out of order. On the second ring he lifted his head, and then turned to the doorway which led into his living room. The only visitor he'd had in the time since his mother had passed had been Margaret from next door, who wandered in at least once a week with a casserole for him. He always accepted her kindness, reminding her that he'd been responsible for the bulk of the cooking in his home for the past eight years or more. Margaret was kind, and at seventy-nine years of age, it was unlikely she had designs on him. It was not her time of day. It was just after 2 pm, and Margaret's visits were either in early morning, or at tea time.

He sighed, lifted himself from the chair, and made his way to the front door. The figure he could see through the lead lighting was small – much smaller than Margaret, who was rather solidly built, what she herself described as a `fuller figure'. Rather carefully, Malcolm opened the door, and then stood speechless.

"Hello, Malcolm," said his visitor. "I wanted to ring, but I destroyed all my contacts with my .. former life. It's a good thing I memorised your address, otherwise I'd have had to resort to some .. digging around online. I hope you don't -"

" _Ruth!_ It's so good to see you," Malcolm said, smiling widely. "This is such a surprise. Come in."

Rather hesitantly Ruth entered Malcolm's house, and while she longed to hug him, she also knew that to do so would result in maximum embarrassment for him. "Go straight through," he said. "I can make us a pot of tea."

Ten minutes later they were sitting across the corner of the vast walnut dining table under the window which overlooked the back garden. "Is your mother out?" Ruth asked, having added a drop of milk and one sugar to her tea. His answering silence told her everything she needed to know. "Oh, Malcolm, she didn't did she?"

"It's been six months this week," he said quietly. "Her heart gave out, and she went rather quickly in the end. I'm sure she's happier now she's with ..." and he allowed the sentence to hang in the air between them.

"I'm so sorry." Ruth looked at Malcolm with sorrowful eyes, and he thought that perhaps this woman had lost enough in her lifetime.

"Are you back for good?" he asked.

"I hadn't thought in those terms, but I suspect I may be."

"I left MI-5 some time ago," Malcolm said. "Things became .. difficult, and I couldn't do it any more. Despite that, I still miss it. Strangely for me, I miss the company."

Ruth nodded and sipped her tea, and as she put her cup back on the saucer she spied a photograph on the cabinet against the far wall. It was a head and shoulders shot of two people, their heads close together, both of them smiling widely into the camera lens. Malcolm and a woman. "That's not your cousin, is it, Malcolm." He smiled and shook his head. "Is it .. serious?" Ruth asked.

"It is for me. Her name is Dawn."

Ruth looked around the room for signs of a woman's presence. "Does she live here?"

"No, although that would be my .. preference. We're neither of us getting any younger. She has a house of her own which she'd shared with her husband, and she's reluctant to let it go. Neither of us has children, so I'm impatient for her to make that final commitment."

"What happened to the husband?"

So Malcolm, happy to be able to share with someone his love for this good woman, told Ruth his and Dawn's story. He had known her for years, having met her at church, and when her husband had died suddenly Malcolm had provided her with a shoulder to lean on. It wasn't until three years after her husband's death that Malcolm has asked her to have dinner with him, after which their relationship had undergone a subtle change from friends to something more.

"How long have you known one another?" Ruth asked.

"Around nine years."

Ruth looked down and found herself smiling. "That's almost as long as I've known you."

"Yes. We haven't moved very quickly. Firstly she was married, and then she was newly widowed. I did wonder if we would ever .. be something more."

Malcolm's words ignited a painful memory in Ruth, but she had no wish to revisit the reason she'd left London six and a half years earlier. The parting from Harry by the Thames still haunted her dreams. "I have some news, also," she said cheerily.

"Don't tell me you're married, Ruth. That would be -"

"No, I'm not married. My news is better than that. I've spent the last few years in Boston, working for a publisher. Last November my first novel was published."

Malcolm's eyes twinkled. "That's wonderful news. You must give me a copy. I'll pay for it, of course."

"Don't be ridiculous," Ruth said, as she grabbed her rather bulky bag from the chair beside her and thrust her hand into it, pulling out a new copy of _Remembering Michael,_ reaching across the table to hand it to him. "This is for you, even if you never read it. And it's a gift."

Malcolm held it in both hands, gazing at the cover with his mouth open, as the truth dawned on him. " _You're_ Emma Ruth?" he said? When Ruth nodded, he carefully placed the book on the table in front of him. "Dawn visited the US late last year. She has a niece living in Massachusetts, just outside Boston. She brought back several copies, and suggested I read it .. which I did. It's wonderful, Ruth. As I read it I thought of you and .. I'm sorry. I'm probably being terribly inappropriate."

"You're not being inappropriate at all. Even though it's set in the 1940's, the story is one which occurred in this century. I wrote it as a gift to ..."

"To Harry?"

Ruth nodded, her eyes very wide. She took a deep breath before she spoke. "Is he .. is Harry all right, Malcolm? You haven't mentioned him."

Malcolm took so long to answer, and with his eyes downcast Ruth steeled herself for bad news. Eventually he looked up. "Harry retired last year," he said quietly. "Just before the London Olympics he took extended leave and travelled throughout Europe, and even to the east coast of the US. He was away for almost six months. When he came home he visited me here. He said he'd been looking for you, but he failed to find any trace of you. I suggested to him that finding you would be like finding a needle in a haystack. He seemed .. defeated, which I thought very unlike him. Not long after that he retired and moved to the country. He's renting a place on the north coast of Suffolk. It's a rather .. remote cottage.."

"You've seen him .. since he's been there?" Malcolm nodded. "How is he, Malcolm? Almost seven years is a long time."

"It is. Harry is .. he's worn out, Ruth. If I didn't know him better I'd say he was simply going through the motions."

"Did I do that .. by leaving?"

Malcolm shook his head and then sighed, tracing the title of Ruth's book with his forefinger. "He and I haven't really talked about what it is ails him, but if I had to give it a name I'd say that Harry is suffering from acute disappointment with himself and his life."

"So, he's depressed."

"I'd say so, although I'd never say that to Harry. You know what he's like. He'd flatly deny it."

After contemplating his words Ruth changed the subject. She didn't wish to revisit the confused feelings which the writing of her novel had uncovered. During her last six months living on Cyprus she had begun writing down some of what she remembered about her almost-romance with Harry. They were random notes and memories which soon became something rather more substantial. At the time she'd suspected that her dissatisfaction with her personal life had fueled a longing for what she could no longer have. It had been two years later that her friend and employer had suggested that she probably had a novel in her. "You must have plenty of stories to tell," Meagan had said. "I've been looking for some new and exotic authors, and you fit the bill perfectly." Ruth had never in her life felt exotic. Even during the two years she'd spent in Cyprus, her brown hair and tanned skin had allowed her to fit in with the local population. It was Meagan's prompt which had Ruth again reading the notes she'd had made while she was living just outside Polis. It was the notes she'd written while wondering where her life could possibly go from there which became her first novel.

Ruth didn't know how she felt about Harry, or the possibility that he was a very changed man, but she knew one thing for sure. When her current commitment to live appearances and book signings was over, she had to see him. She would not be able to get on with writing the sequel to _Remembering Michael_ until she had spoken to him.

When her visit with Malcolm was over, and he had taken their tea things through to the kitchen, Ruth lifted another spare copy of her book from her bag and placed it on the dining table between she and Malcolm. When he returned from the kitchen she still had her hand on the book. "Malcolm, would you see that Harry gets this?" she said, hoping he'd simply say yes, and that would be the end of it.

"I have a much better idea," he said, standing behind the chair he'd occupied while they'd shared tea. "Why don't you take it to him in person?"


	2. Chapter 2

" _My first glimpse of you was through the window of a railway carriage. The year was 1943. You were forty-three and I was twenty-nine. I was later to learn that you were proud of being born in the first week of the first month of 1900. `I belong to the generation whose job it will be to change the world,' you'd said. I said I didn't care. I just knew that my world had been changed the minute I saw you."_

 _"Remembering Michael" -_ Emma Ruth

* * *

Ruth had been hoping Malcolm would offer to take her novel to Harry himself, so that if Harry made some disparaging remark about it being a book for women, she would not be there to be personally affronted by any such remark. Malcolm was right, though. She needed to be the one to hand him a copy of her book. If he never read it, she could do nothing about that. At least she would have given him the opportunity.

Ruth spent the next four weeks in book shops and attending book clubs, speaking and signing copies of her novel. When readers asked her the inevitable question about the book – was it based on circumstances from her own life? - she always answered vaguely that she had loved and lost and later regretted her decision, but clearly, given the time in which the story was set, it could not have been an exact retelling of her own life. Over the months of book signings her answers to that question had become more and more evasive, until she was no longer sure the story bore any resemblance to her brief romance with Harry.

It had barely been a romance at all, really. It had been a romance in their heads and their hearts, a longing which had only briefly crept out from inside them to sit on the table between them while they'd shared that one dinner. It had sat in the back seat of the car as Harry had driven her home, and it had grown exponentially when he had dropped a warm kiss at the corner of her mouth just before she'd turned from him to disappear inside her house. It had been there with them that cold morning when she'd left London, her grief as real as Harry's. As she'd kissed him goodbye before she left him standing alone on that landing, it had briefly enveloped them, a warm coat on a chilly morning. She had had to press the grief and the love down into her body, where it had lain dormant until her visit with Malcolm just over a month earlier. It was only now she was back in her home country that she dared look at that time almost seven years ago when she and Harry had dabbled with the possibility that their work could nurture great love as freely as it had great loss. As she'd glanced back once more to see Harry standing on that small landing by the Thames, she'd locked deep inside her that last image of him. That possibility – the possibility they had faced, but not completed – now danced inside her, an idea, an impulse, a potential seeking an opportunity to germinate, grow and then burst into flower. Was she brave enough to try again? She had to. She couldn't bear it were she to reach the day of her death having never tried.

* * *

Ruth was within ten kilometres of Harry's hideaway in northern Suffolk when a wave of anxiety crept up her spine to her shoulders and then her throat, grasping her in a choking hold. What was she doing? What made her believe that this was a good idea? She slowed her Renault Clio, pulling it off the sealed section of the road. She sighed, grasping her fingers more tightly around the steering wheel. While she had rented a small town house not far from Malcolm's house, the car had been an indulgence. She had bought it new and on an impulse, and the next day had worried about the possibility that she may never sell another book. What if her writing career was just an anomaly – a brief flash in a very large pan, doomed to never being repeated? She'd even mentioned her anxieties to Malcolm when she'd first visited him. "You'll need a reliable car for when you visit Harry," he'd said, smiling mischievously. "His house is quite out-of-the-way."

With Malcolm's words her anxiety had abated. She had begun outlining the sequel to her first novel. It's working title was _Novel_2_ \- not very original, but when she'd shared the outline with Meagan, the younger woman had been excited. "First chapter along with your outline by the end of May," she'd said, and Ruth knew that her publisher was generous, and that anyone else would have demanded the first three chapters plus an outline by the end of April.

Only two days earlier Ruth had again dropped in to see Malcolm, finding him in his back yard, muddy spade in his hand. He had invited her inside for a cuppa, and she had gratefully accepted.

"Have you heard from Dawn?" she'd called out to Malcolm as he prepared the tea in the kitchen.

He waited until he carried the tray into the dining room. "We see one another at church every Sunday," he said quietly, "but we talk on the phone most days. Other than that we see one another maybe once or twice more during the week. I'm busy with my work, and she has a small job in a charity shop near where she lives. Neither of us is exactly gregarious. It .. suits us."

Ruth chatted about her weeks travelling around the UK, meeting people and signing copies of her book. It was during a lull in her chatter that Malcolm spoke. "Only a week ago I had a call from Harry," he said, keeping one eye on Ruth as he spoke. She looked up at him, surprise clear on her face. "We hadn't spoken since before Christmas, when I visited him for a catch up, and to see where he was living. I hope you don't mind, Ruth, but I told him you had come home. I also told him you had published a novel, and that you were planning to visit him to present him with his very own copy."

Ruth had taken a few moments to absorb his words. "How did he … respond to that news?"

"You know Harry," Malcolm replied quietly. "He holds his cards close to his chest, but I heard a softening in his voice. He very politely said he'd be happy to see you. I told him to expect you .. soon." Malcolm looked up at Ruth, holding her gaze. "Did I say the right thing?"

She had nodded, emotion overwhelming her. "I don't have a phone number for him," she replied, practical as ever.

"He didn't offer, and so I decided to not ask. He's very private these days, Ruth. I didn't wish to tread on his toes. I didn't give him your number, and he didn't offer his. I thought you might like to sort that out when you see one another."

And so there she was, ten minutes from seeing Harry after having had no direct contact with him for six years and eight months. Ruth grasped the steering wheel and moved her hands around the wheel, willing herself to drive this last ten kilometres. She sat for another five minutes, trying to find a reason for turning the car around and driving back to London. Then with the greatest surge of her own will she started her car, checked her side and rear mirrors, and then drove on to the road and towards Harry's house .. and Harry.

Her first sighting of his rental house was of a dark grey slate roof through the trees. The walls appeared equally as dark until she grew closer, and then she had visions of Mr Rochester's mad wife being held in the attic under the steeply pitched roof. As she reached the turn-off to the house, she noticed not one car parked beside the house, but two. One was a dark blue colour, an expensive sedan, while the other was small – an old Volkswagon Golf, with faded light blue paint. Surely Harry didn't require two cars. Could the smaller car belong to a girlfriend? Hardly, she told herself, not unless Harry was dating an eighteen-year-old who worked part time at the local B & Q, and she thought that unlikely.

Ruth drove slowly down the drive, her eyes on the house, searching for signs of life. Leaving her bag in the car, she locked the car and then pocketed the key, by which time she had reached a door which appeared to be the the main entrance to the cottage. She pressed the door bell and waited, trying to find an appropriate conversational starting point for when Harry opened the door.

The person who appeared in the doorway wasn't Harry, and nor was it an eighteen-year-old girl. A young man stood in the doorway, one hand on the door handle, the other resting against the door frame. "You must be Ruth," he said. "Dad said you might arrive today." Ruth was struck speechless by this young man's resemblance to his father. Other than his hair colour, which was darker than Harry's blond hair, and his dark grey eyes, Harry's son was a chip off the old block. "You don't have to say anything," he said. "I'm Graham Pearce, and everyone who meets me for the first time, and also knows my father, reacts just as you have."

"I'm sorry if I stared. It's just that -"

"I look like him."

"Yes. You do." Remembering her manners, Ruth thrust out her hand, and was relieved when Graham returned the gesture so that they could shake hands. His handshake was firm and brief. "I am Ruth Evershed, but I now go by the name Emma Ruth. You can call me Ruth."

For the first time since he'd opened the door, Graham smiled, and with that smile his face changed. When he smiled his resemblance to Harry faded, and his frown dissolved. Ruth decided that she rather liked Harry's son.

"Sorry," Graham said, standing up straight and letting his hands fall to his sides. "Please come in. My father is taking his daily constitutional. He walks to the beach, and then heads in one direction for half an hour before turning and heading back towards home." Graham had stood aside as Ruth stepped through the doorway, looking around at the dark wood panelled entrance hall. Ruth turned to face Graham, who continued talking. "If you're up to it, you might like to walk down there to meet him. I'm sure neither of you need me hovering around when you first see one another." Ruth lifted her eyebrows in surprise, suppressing a smile. "I didn't mean anything .. by that. I just thought that, not having seen one another for a number of years, you might like .. er, privacy."

This time Ruth smiled broadly at Graham. The master of foot-in-mouth. "I'd like that," she said. "I also need to stretch my legs after that drive. Just point me in the right direction."

Graham accompanied Ruth outside and pointed down the lane which continued past the house. "It's only a ten minute walk to the beach. I suggest you follow the main path through the dunes. The marram grass provides shelter for .. weirdos who like to hide there and .. I don't know .. you can probably guess what they get up to. You'll need a coat or a jacket, too. The wind off the sea can cut like a knife."

Ruth thanked Graham, and then opened her car to retrieve a warm hooded jacket which she'd bought only the week before. It was bright red, with yellow lining, so she'd stand out against the dunes, should any `weirdos' need a warning that she was approaching. By the time she reached the beach she was rather warm, although her nose was ice cold. She'd moved briskly along the path through the dunes, her eyes looking straight ahead. When she reached the beach she walked towards the water, looking left and right, but there was no sign of Harry. She fancied the idea of meeting him on his way back from his walk, but given she had no idea from which direction he'd appear, her best strategy was to wait until she saw him.

She didn't have long to wait. Ruth had been walking around in circles to keep warm when she noticed a figure approaching from the north. Even from that distance she knew it to be Harry. She'd have known his walk anywhere – a brisk swagger. She stood on the rough sand half way between the dunes and the shore, watching him slowly moving closer. She liked to believe that as he saw her he began to hurry. Without a plan of action, Ruth began walking towards him. She was in no hurry, but she recognised that her fear of meeting him again after such a long time apart had been replaced by excitement and anticipation.

Once they were around one hundred metres apart Ruth stopped and waited for him to reach her. She felt her heart rate increase, and her cheeks flush. She felt herself smiling, while Harry's face, once she could make out his features, appeared emotionless. Bloody spook, she thought. He still hides his emotions. As he drew closer Ruth could see the effect the years had had on him. The lines on his face were deeper, and there was a sadness in his eyes which she remembered from the last time she'd seen him as he stood on the dock watching her tug boat take her away from him.

When he was around two to three metres away Harry stopped, removing his hands from the pockets of his orange and black anorak. He stared at her, looking her up and down, taking in her eyes, face, hands and her body. In his scrutiny he left out no part of her. Ruth knew that she was doing exactly the same thing, taking in his hair, a little longer, with some grey showing at the temples, his face, now weathered by the intervening years and the ravages of his stressful lifestyle, and his body, a little thinner than it had been when she left. They stood still on that beach in north Suffolk, examining each other wordlessly.

It was Harry who spoke first. "It's good to see you again, Ruth." At the sound of his voice, one she feared she'd never hear again, Ruth felt a knot of emotion forming in her throat. Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded, and smiled into his eyes. For her, it was as though the years since they'd said their sad goodbye had just melted away.


	3. Chapter 3

**_A/N : Thank you all for your generous and enthusiastic reviews of the opening two chapters. Clearly I am unable to assess my own writing, since this story almost didn't make it to publication._**

 ** _This chapter continues directly from the last._**

* * *

" _You stared into the distance, a man surely as old as time itself, and when our eyes met through the glass you smiled at me, one side of your mouth lifting with a humour we were later to share. My first conscious thought was how sad were your eyes, and I wondered what depth of loss had nurtured such sadness. When it became clear to me that the woman you helped step onto the platform from the railway carriage was your wife I gasped as though struggling for air. I was not to know that you were soon to be more important to me than the oxygen I'd then craved._ "

" _Remembering Michael_ " - Emma Ruth

* * *

"And here was I thinking I'd never see you again." She immediately regretted her words. They were careless and unnecessary. Of course she was sure she'd never see him again, just as he must have believed he'd never again set eyes on her. "I'm sorry," she added. "That was .."

".. something you say to someone you haven't seen in a long time, and to whom you have no idea what to say." Harry's voice was deep and smooth, and he'd stepped a little closer as he spoke.

Ruth nodded and allowed her face to relax into a smile. "It is _so_ good to see you, Harry … and I have so much I want to say to you that .. I have no idea where to begin."

"Likewise," he replied. "Today is already a good day," and then he smiled, and she saw signs of the old Harry, the one she had once loved, because she had no idea about this new Harry, or what he was to her. She wanted to love him, but she suspected that was because she had a need for loving someone as she'd once loved him. In the intervening years she'd tried loving others, but in neither case had it lasted. Perhaps she'd tried loving the wrong people. Perhaps there was one person who'd been born for her to love, and this person was once more standing in front of her. In that moment when she and Harry were deciding what they should do or say next she liked to think they'd been born to be together, which she knew was at best little more than a fanciful idea, one which belonged in her fictions rather than it did in real life.

Harry moved slowly closer until he stood beside her. He then reached out to slip a hand under her elbow. "We'd best head home," he said quietly, "before we both freeze solid."

He kept his hand on her elbow until they reached the lane on the landward side of the dunes. Once there, he dropped his hand, and so Ruth reached out to grasp his arm, grasping his elbow with her fingers. Harry looked down at her, his eyes dark and piercing. Ruth returned his gaze, wondering how many times he had smiled in the intervening years. She suspected not many.

"I like your son," she said at last.

Harry said nothing, so she looked up at him. His face was set in a grim expression. "Graham has not been the easiest of children," he said at last.

"But he's no longer a child."

"Some men remain children for a long time. He'll turn thirty this year, but emotionally he's .. much younger."

Ruth said nothing. She'd only met Graham for a few minutes, so what would she know? "I suspect you were born aged forty-five," she said.

When she heard Harry's quiet chuckle she looked up to see him gazing down at her. The pace of their progress along the lane had slowed a little. "I think you might be right. I went a bit off the rails in my late twenties and into my thirties. It took me a while to .. fully mature."

"Does he live with you?"

"Thankfully, no. He has a share house with three others. Late last summer a group of them went to Great Yarmouth for a break, and they never returned to London. They all work, but the work is .. not what Graham is capable of. He waits tables in a cafe four nights a week, and visits me a couple days a week. I keep him busy with .. odd jobs." Harry became quiet again, so Ruth assumed his train of thought had come to an end. Apparently not so. "He hasn't touched drugs since he left London, so .. I expect that's a plus."

"That must have been .. devastating."

"It was. Although it was his mother who bore the worst of it, so now that I have time on my hands it's my turn."

"And what else do you do with all the time you have on your hands?"

When he didn't answer she suspected she had touched a no-go zone. Harry had always had those; places he didn't like to go, and refused to acknowledge. There was so much about him she had never known – like his marriage, and his son.

"I .. fill my time," he said at last. "I've tried taming the garden, with little success. The more I hack about, the stronger all the weeds grow."

"I could help you with that if you like. Another pair of hands."

"That would be .. nice," he replied. "The owner of the house has it up for sale, so I have put in an offer, and I'm waiting for their reply. If and when I get the OK, there's a lot I want to do with it, but it needs other people under the roof with me. With just me it feels a bit .. cavernous."

Ruth had no idea what she should say to that, so she remained silent. Was he dropping hints? They were just about to round the bend in the lane which would put them in sight of Harry's house when he stopped walking and turned to her. He looked into her eyes as only ever Harry had looked into her eyes. She had missed it, but at the same time she was hardly prepared for the intensity of his gaze. "Will you stay with me for a few nights?" he asked, his voice barely audible. Ruth knew how hard it was for him to be asking such a direct question. "I don't mean …" and he looked away, visibly embarrassed.

"Then what is it you mean?"

Again Harry looked at her, his gaze direct and unwavering. "I'm not making an improper suggestion, Ruth. My cottage has three bedrooms. I sleep in the first one, while Graham has chosen the small room overlooking the back garden. There is another bedroom .. next to mine. You are welcome to use it .. at any time ... for as long as you wish."

"I think you must be the only man in the UK under the age of seventy to use the term, `improper suggestion'."

Harry's face widened in a smile, and he stepped just a little closer to her. For a moment Ruth thought he was about to kiss her, but he didn't. Her disappointment surprised her. "Let me think about it," she said. "I was expecting to get a room in the village pub, but .."

"I'd like you to stay," he said, still standing quite close to her. "We have a lot to talk about and .. it's bound to take us some time."

Ruth nodded. "All right," she said, and they both turned, her hand still resting in the crook of his elbow, and continued along the lane.

* * *

When Ruth and Harry stepped into the house it was immediately evident that someone had been busy in the kitchen. "Whatever it is," Ruth said, "that smells wonderful."

"It's Graham," Harry explained, helping Ruth with her coat, and then hanging it on a hook next to his own.

"But his car's gone."

"He usually cooks dinner before he leaves."

"He can cook?"

"He's good. He's planning to train as a chef .. when he finds a course with a vacancy."

Harry led Ruth to the kitchen, a large and light room at the back of the house, with windows overlooking a rambling, untidy garden. Harry went straight to the kitchen counter where the tea-making things were, and began making tea for them both. Ruth watched him, admiring the fluid movements of his body. She had done that a lot seven years ago, when they had worked together on the Grid. It was only then that she admitted to herself how much she had missed it – the admiring of a lovely man, the way his body moved, his movements economical, his shoulders tensing and then relaxing, depending on his mood.

"But you don't approve of Graham's choice of career," Ruth said as Harry placed her mug of tea in front of her, and then sat in a chair across the corner of the table from her.

"I didn't say that," Harry said, passing the milk and sugar to Ruth.

For the first time since they'd met on the beach, Ruth noticed Harry's hands. She'd loved his hands. The nails were neatly trimmed, and as she watched the way his fingers curled around the handle of his mug of tea she felt a familiar stirring deep inside her abdomen. She mustn't allow herself to imagine those fingers on her skin, but it had been such a long time. "You didn't have to," she said, lifting her eyes to his face.

Harry sighed heavily. "You know me too well, Ruth."

"But it's been years since we worked together."

"Some habits never change." They watched one another over the rims of their mugs of tea. Harry knew he should dissolve the tension in the room, even if he didn't want to. "Tell me your story, Ruth. What did you do while you were gone?" He was a little afraid of her answer, but he had to ask. Malcolm had already intimated that she was single, but he was sure she hadn't always been.

"What do you want to know?"

 _Everything_. "Whatever you're comfortable telling me."

Ruth looked down at her tea and ran her finger around the rim of the mug, thinking about where she should begin, and what she should tell him, and what needed to remain unspoken.

"Just begin at the beginning." She looked up to see him staring at her with that intense, defenses-stripping gaze, the one which had always left her struggling to find the right words. She decided to take him literally.

"I can give you the canned version, because it's been almost seven years, and a lot has happened in that time." Harry nodded, and sat back in his chair to listen, his face expressionless. "The first six to ten months were .. terrible. Not since my father died had I experienced such .. devastation. Despite my best intentions, I thought a lot about what I'd left behind – my job, my friends, my house .. and most of all, you, and what we .. almost had."

"The devastation was mutual, Ruth."

She hadn't expected him to be that honest. She watched him watching her, waiting for him to say more, but he remained silent, expecting her to continue. "I ended up taking a train to Amsterdam, where I sought out Jan Visser. He's a contact of Malcolm's. Without him I think I would have gone home, tail between my legs. Jan put me in touch with people who needed an interpreter, but mostly I worked as a translator. I worked everywhere – The Netherlands, Belgium, France, Italy, and then Greece. I spent almost a year in a remote mountain village in Italy. I taught English to the children in the school, and in return I was given a couple of rooms in a villa, and all the food I could eat. I loved being there, and would have stayed, but I felt cut off from the world, and I knew I needed to remain on the move." Ruth looked up to see that Harry was smiling, his eyes soft. "What?" she asked.

"I'm relieved that you were happy, Ruth."

"My life did get better, but I still missed … everything I'd left behind." Again her eyes sought Harry to see that he was watching her closely. She dropped her eyes to her tea, and took another sip. "While in Athens I met a Greek Cypriot doctor. His name was George. He had a young son whom I adored on sight. When he returned to Cyprus I accompanied him. It felt safer to be travelling with other people. I took a clerical job in the hospital where he worked in Polis, on the northern coast. I moved into his house with he and the boy, and after around three months I moved into his bedroom .. with him. We had … a life together, and it was a good life. I was happy .. for a while, and for a time I believed I had found someone with whom I could settle down." She looked up again to find Harry's eyes still on her, a hint of hurt in them. "Did you never find ... anyone?" she asked defensively.

Harry shook his head. "I tried. I tried to move on. I dated sporadically, beginning a year or so after you left, but I just wasn't .. interested in anyone … other than you. There was someone I saw for around four months, but despite her being perfect on paper .. my heart wasn't in it."

"What was her name?"

Harry sighed heavily and looked down. "We could do with some fresh tea," he said, rising from his chair, grabbing both his mug and hers, and turning to the kitchen counter, where he refilled the kettle, his back to Ruth. It wasn't until he'd rinsed each of their mugs and dried them that he spoke, although his back was still to her. "Her name was Sandra," he said. "She was an attaché to the South African Ambassador in London. For a while we saw a lot of one another, but .. I just couldn't .." He turned to face her. "I couldn't get involved."

"Why?"

"In my mind I was still involved with you."

There was nothing more to be said, except the answer to the one question Ruth needed him to answer. "Are you still?"

Harry's nod was barely perceptible, but Ruth saw it. "My father always told me that when I eventually learned what love was that I would meet someone I could love for life. It seems .. he was right .. at least, about that."

Again they sat near one another while they sugared and milked their tea. They sat in silence for some minutes while they both took in what Harry had said, wondering what that would mean for them both. If Ruth was being honest with herself, her answer to why she and George, and then she and Grant had not lasted would have been similar to Harry's.

"I stayed in Cyprus for almost two years," Ruth continued, since neither she nor Harry were ready to address the subject he had opened. "Around eighteen months after we began our relationship, it began to deteriorate. We'd talked of marriage, so I'm now quite relieved that I put off making that decision. From Cyprus I flew back to Amsterdam and again looked up Jan Visser. He made me two new identities, one of which was Emma Ruth, which is the name I write under. I worked around Europe for another eight months or so, and then I flew to Boston, and that is where I began working for the woman who was responsible for getting my novel published. And now here I am .. back home."

"Malcolm told me you'd written a novel. I'd quite like to read it."

"That's good, because I have a copy to give you, but I'll wait until I'm about to leave … in the morning."

"You're leaving in the morning?" This time Harry's eyes were pleading. So many expressions in those eyes; Ruth had almost forgotten.

"I have an evening meeting with my British publisher, so yes. Then in a few days I have more .. appearances."

"You don't like doing the publicity," he said, more a statement than a question.

"I don't mind it, but I don't like being in the public eye like that. I'm still expecting someone to turn up one day and ask didn't I used to be Ruth Evershed."

Harry twisted his mouth in a half smile. "And you didn't fall in love again .. while you were away?"

"No, although I'm not sure that what George and I shared could be called love. We were good friends who tried for more, and it didn't work. I enjoyed my life with him, but it wasn't to be. In Boston I met someone and had a fling .. for a few months. He wanted it to be more, but it was never going to be more for me. And now I'm back here, flogging my novel to the masses."

Harry waited for her to say more, but it appeared she had said all she wanted. He looked around to check the time on the clock on the microwave oven. "It's almost six," he said. "Graham's note said the hot pot will be ready at around seven, so .. time to show you around the house."


	4. Chapter 4

_""It's just an hotel, Grace."_

 _"But .. were we to eat here, people will think .."_

 _"What will they think?" The skin around Michael's eyes crinkled as he smiled._

 _Grace's flow of words stopped and her mind clouded. The combination of words required to describe her fears would surely take her the best part of the evening to arrange in order, and they may only have this one evening. "Nothing," she said."_

* * *

Ruth followed Harry up the stairs. He had taken her small case from her hand, while she carried her rather roomy bag over one shoulder. In that bag she carried her electronic notebook, and a spare copy of her novel, the one she planned to gift to Harry. It was already wrapped in shiny black paper, tied with gold-coloured ribbon.

At the top of the stairs Harry hesitated outside an open door. Ruth stood next to him, and through the doorway she saw a neat and unremarkable room, a large bed against one wall, with a wardrobe against the wall nearest the doorway. On the opposite wall she caught a glimpse of grey sea between the dark blue curtains. "This is my room," he said. "It's not very .. thrilling. It's where I sleep."

He noticed Ruth's eyes taking in every detail of the room – the neatly made bed, the royal blue dressing gown thrown over a chair under the window, the tidiness, the order. "It's rather neat, Harry," she said.

"Is that a problem?"

Ruth shook her head, and then noticed the small smile which lifted one side of his mouth. Harry moved along the corridor. "This next room is yours. I still have to make the bed so -". He didn't finish his sentence. Harry had entered the room with Ruth's bag, only to find the bed made and two towels and a wash cloth draped neatly over the foot of the bed. "Graham got here before me. Did you tell him you were planning to stay?"

Ruth shook her head. It appeared Harry's son knew more than she did. Suddenly, Ruth liked Harry's son even more. Once he'd put her case at the foot of the bed, Harry seemed keen to leave the room. "The bathroom is just down the hallway. There's only one bathroom, so we'll have to share."

"I'm sure that won't be a problem. I usually shower at night, before I retire."

"And I shower in the morning," he said, glancing towards her, and then away. "I'll show you the room Graham uses," and Harry strode along the passageway ahead of Ruth, who kept her head down to hide her amusement. She'd never thought of Harry as being a prude, but he seemed to struggle when the conversation slipped into anything remotely approaching intimacy, or any idea, word or phrase which may – or may not – lead towards intimacy.

When Ruth reached the small back bedroom where Graham slept, Harry was standing at the window which looked over the back garden. "This is the best view of the garden, and this is where I survey it, and plan what needs doing next."

Ruth stood beside Harry at the window and looked down on the garden below. She could see that the garden had potential. It just needed a firm hand. "If you don't mind me visiting again – when I've finished the UK public appearances for my novel – I can give you a few ideas, and I can even do some of the work. At present it's a bit .. dull. It needs colour."

"That's what Graham says."

Although they were not touching, Ruth was standing close enough to Harry to feel the heat from his body. She knew she needed to move away from his side, but she didn't want to. How could she have forgotten about the aura of strength which emanated from Harry? He was like a tree in the garden which no storm, no matter how severe, had managed to uproot, and she felt stronger and more solid in his presence. She felt his arm touch hers as he leaned towards her, She looked up to find him watching her. "I'd almost come to terms with never seeing you again," he said quietly. For a moment Ruth thought he was going to kiss her. Had he, she would have returned the kiss. Then he moved away and started for the door. "Dinner will be ready soon." Before he left the room, he turned back to Ruth. "You might like to settle into your room."

Ruth recognised an excuse when she heard it. She was only staying for one night, so there was little `settling in' for her to be doing.

* * *

Dinner was a quiet affair. As reluctant as Harry was to talk about anything to do with his last years with MI-5, Ruth persisted, her voice quiet and devoid of emotion .. or judgement.

"Malcolm has already told me what happened to Zaf and Adam. There's something else, isn't there? There's something which is troubling you which you'd rather not share with me."

Harry sat looking at his glass of wine, unconsciously turning his glass around and around with his fingers. His face bore a neutral expression, although Ruth knew him well enough to know he was struggling with what he needed to tell her, as well as how. He'd hardly touched his lamb hot pot, which Ruth found delicious and rather moreish.

When Harry lifted his eyes to Ruth, he had stopped turning his glass. His fingers were still, and he'd brought his hands back to the table top in front of him. "There is more, yes."

"More deaths?" Harry nodded. "People I knew .. and loved?"

"Some. After Zaf and Adam, the next one to go was Jo." Ruth's face changed suddenly, and she lifted her hand to cover her mouth. "And after that there was Ros. There was a hotel bombing in London early in 2010, and along with Ros, the Home Secretary also died."

Harry noticed the glistening of tears in Ruth's eyes. This was the very reason he hadn't wanted to be the one to tell her. Her distress was too confronting for him, and he didn't know what to do to make it better for her. "I heard about the bombing from Boston. It was on the BBC channel. They reported the death of the Home Secretary and a senior member of the domestic security service. At the time .. I was sure … it was you." And then Ruth's control broke. She pushed back her chair and stood up, her hand over her mouth. He could hear the sobs she was attempting to suppress. He stood up and took a step towards her, but she was too quick. With her free hand she pushed him aside, rushing through the kitchen to the back door, which she flung open before heading blindly into the garden .. or what would one day be the garden. Harry wanted to follow her. He thought perhaps he _should_ follow her, but it was clear to him that she'd rather be alone. He lowered himself against the corner of the kitchen table, keeping Ruth in his line of vision. It hurt him to hear her crying, but it hurt him more that she wanted nothing to do with him. It had been a wonderful and life-changing day ... and now this.

* * *

It took Ruth fifteen or so minutes to calm. When Harry noticed that her shoulders were no longer shaking he joined her in the garden, underneath the walnut tree which had just begun flowering. He stood behind her and reached out, but didn't quite touch her. "Ruth," he said, "I'm so sorry .. about everything."

She turned to him then, and he noticed how red were her eyes, and how what little make-up she wore was streaked down her face. "You didn't cause their deaths, Harry. It wasn't your fault. And you had no way of letting me know .. at the time it happened."

Everything she said was true, but he still felt responsible .. for everything. "Come inside, Ruth. You'll catch your death out here."

She took a step or two towards him, but when he was about to slide one arm around her, she darted past him and into the house, where she began tidying the table, stacking plates and taking them to the sink. Harry followed her more slowly, meeting her at the sink and taking the plates from her. "Leave them, Ruth. I'll clean up."

"But I have to help."

Having placed the crockery on the sink, Harry turned and grasped Ruth's hands in his own. He really wanted to pull her against him, to share some of his warmth with her, to draw her closer to him, her body flush against his own. "I'll do this, Ruth. You can go up and have a shower if you like, or .." and he looked over at the table where they'd been sitting, "I think there might be enough wine left in that bottle for you to have a half glass."

Suddenly all the fight went out of her, and she lifted her eyes to his. "Back three years ago," she said quietly, "when I learned of the explosion in that hotel, I was sure it was you who had died along with the Home Secretary. It was … I was .." Harry waited for her to lean against him, but she stayed as she was. "I'll go up and shower, and then I'll .. I think I should sleep. Today has been ..." The day had brought so much more than she had expected.

And once Harry let go of her hands she quickly left the kitchen, and soon he heard her tread on the stairs. He flopped down in a chair at the table, and poured the remainder of the wine into a glass for himself. He was sure he had handled that rather badly, but he didn't know what else he could have done.

He rinsed the dishes and stacked the dishwasher, but given it was only half full, he didn't turn it on. He heard the rush of water as Ruth showered, followed by the silence when the water stopped. Harry waited another twenty minutes before he headed upstairs to the bathroom and then to bed. As he passed Ruth's bedroom, the door was firmly closed.

* * *

In his bedroom Harry removed all his clothes and stood naked in front of the oak framed cheval mirror in the corner of his bedroom. His room was quite cold, but his body was warm. He almost never looked at his whole body, not unless he was fully clothed. He was six months from turning sixty, so he was far from his best, but he was surprised by what he saw reflected back to him. Firstly, his thighs were still well muscled, and his arms and shoulders were as full and strong as a man twenty years his junior. His torso was fleshier than he would have liked. His belly was rounded, but since he'd been walking almost daily, it was even smaller than it had been a year ago. He had to accept that he would never again have a flat belly. From his stomach his eyes moved down to his genitals. He was a well endowed man, and he had always prided himself in knowing how to use what he had been given. Even Sandra, his last lover, had remarked that he was particularly good in bed. "Just a bit hopeless where the emotions are concerned," had rounded off her assessment of him. He noticed that his pubic hair had thinned, but that wasn't a bad thing; he'd never been fond of a forest of pubic hair, on women or on men. Harry was certain that part of him did not look almost sixty, and he knew he was fortunate that it all remained fully functional. And then to his face and neck .. which was where his age showed. He ran a hand across his face and then around his neck and throat; this was where the ravages of his former job, along with the stunted emotional life he had lived for so long were written for all to see.

As he turned to pull on a warm pair of track pants and a t shirt, he hoped that he and Ruth would find their way to one another, now that they were no longer boss and subordinate. As he saw it they needed one another. There was no-one in the world knew him as she did, and he knew her just as thoroughly. Their time apart had not changed that. He climbed into bed, turned on his side so that he faced the window, and then reached out to turn out the lamp beside his bed.

Inside her bedroom, Ruth had listened while Harry had gone to the bathroom, and then entered his bedroom and closed the door. She didn't know what was wrong with her. More than anything she had wanted Harry to comfort her earlier that evening. She had sensed that he had wanted to provide comfort for her, but he had been confronted and confused by her brushing off his attempts to get close to her. She knew why she'd done that. Over the years it had become her habit. George had complained of it, as had Grant. When she most needed the arms of her partner around her, she had pushed him away. In some ways she was still that distressed eleven-year-old who had had to comfort herself while at boarding school. She'd crawl into bed at night, pulling her duvet up to cover her head so that no-one else in her dorm could hear her crying. She'd been terribly homesick, as well as confused by her mother's coldness towards her. Well, she'd had enough. To keep others at arms' length was no longer a reasonable or rational strategy. She knew Harry wanted her; she could read it in his eyes. To keep pushing him away was cruel to them both.

Ruth sat up in bed, grabbed her dressing gown from where it was draped over her bed, and put her feet on the floor, pulling on her dressing gown as she slid her feet into her slippers, and then crept from her room. When she reached the door to Harry's room, she pressed her ear against the wood and listened. She heard nothing, so she rapped gently on the door and called his name. Still nothing, so she opened the door and quietly slid inside.

He'd left the curtains open, so by the little moonlight which illuminated the room she could see Harry's body curled up on one side of the bed. She crept closer until she heard his soft snoring. She stood her ground for a moment, deciding what she should do. She had entered his room intending to climb into bed with him, and to offer him some solace. She quickly decided it would be best were she to leave the room, before her presence woke him. What a moment of madness she had had, and what a relief that he was already asleep. Very quietly she backed out of the room and closed the door.


	5. Chapter 5

**_A/N: Thanks to those who have left reviews to this story. I am speeding up the process of posting, since it looks like being around 19 chapters long, and if I post once a week that will take too long to get it up there. It is not a complicated story._**

* * *

 _Grace watched his long fingers stroking the glass. "So," she began, "you have a war job." Michael nodded. "Are you able to talk about it?"_

 _He laughed, a harsh bark from the back of his throat. "Were I to tell you anything, they'll come after you."_

 _"Who are `they', and how will they know?"_

 _"You've already asked too many questions. By rights I should report you. You could be a -"_

 _"A German spy?"_

 _He nodded, his eyes dancing. For the first time in years he was enjoying himself. Not for the first time, he dreaded having to go home. He was needed. Thora would always need him._

 _"Stay," she said._

 _"You know I can't." he replied._

* * *

North Suffolk - next morning:

"Tell me how Jo died," Ruth said, turning from the garden in front of her to make eye contact with Harry, who stood on the doorstep just behind her. They had only just finished eating breakfast together, a quiet affair during which only safe subjects had been raised. When Ruth had asked, Harry had talked freely about his children, grateful to have someone willing to listen to his concerns for both his daughter and his son.

He stepped a little closer to her, wanting to reach out to touch her, but wary for fear she'd misinterpret his action. "Are you sure you want to know this?" he asked.

"I don't even want to think about Jo being dead, but I must know how she died, Harry." She turned back to again survey the garden, where the warmth from the morning sun had already evaporated the dew on the grass. It looked like being a lovely day. She wore her yellow and red hooded jacket, and she'd wrapped her arms across the front of her body for warmth. "You can't possibly tame this space using spades and shovels. You need to hire a rotary hoe. Dig along each side – to a width of around four to five metres each side – and then along the back fence. The strip of soil along the back is a good place for a vegetable patch. It will need a raised bed. The climate here can be quite ... unpredictable. That leaves the centre piece for lawn, which gives you plenty of space for planting flowers and flowering shrubs, and maybe a fruit tree or two."

Harry smiled, but Ruth couldn't see his smile. She was looking out over his garden, imagining the possibilities. "Come inside, Ruth. I'll make us a pot of coffee, and I'll tell you everything I know about Jo's death."

In the end he found it easy – a relief, even – to recount the circumstances which had led to Jo's untimely death. He stared at a spot on the table – a knot hole, the shape of which had always reminded him of a vagina – and intermittently looked at Ruth, who watched him closely throughout, her face impassive, calm. "I've always thought of her death as my fault .. something that with just a little more forethought may have been avoided. When she went down there she'd been following my orders."

"That was your job, Harry. It could just as easily have turned out differently, even had you still sent her down there."

He was surprised by her calm reaction to his retelling of that awful day, and he said so. "I needed you with me that day, Ruth. There was so much happening, and all at once. The analysts couldn't keep up, so an executive decision was needed."

"I did all my crying last night." Ruth hesitated before continuing. "I'm sorry I was so … difficult."

He smiled again, remembering his confusion about how best to approach her. "I've never been skilled at .. that sort of thing. I've been told I'm .."

"I know, Harry. I do understand. I'm not good with emotion either."

And they left the discussion there. Perhaps they would give themselves a chance to work on the personal side of relating to one another. Perhaps not. They didn't get around to discussing that before Ruth announced that in a half hour she needed to leave. Harry felt his stomach drop. She was leaving, and they hadn't made plans of any kind – other than for the garden. "I'll give you my phone number, Ruth." he said. "We can't continue to communicate through Malcolm."

And so it was that they exchanged phone numbers before Ruth took herself upstairs to pack her things and make her bed. When she returned to the kitchen she was carrying her overnight case and her shoulder bag. She carefully placed her case on the slate floor, and her bag on the table. "I have something for you," and she reached into her bag and took out the copy of her novel, wrapped in shiny black paper, and tied with a gold ribbon. "It's my book."

Harry took it from her and was about to unwrap it when Ruth placed a hand on his. "Not yet," she said. "Open it after I'm gone."

There was a finality to her words which spoke to them both - partings, endings, long days and nights spent grieving yet another loss. They had both experienced enough loss. Harry thanked her and placed the book on the table. "I'll open it tonight."

"You don't have to wait that long."

It was almost time for Ruth to leave, and they hadn't made plans to see one another again. As he followed Ruth outside to her car, Harry recognised that it was he who would have to initiate arrangements for them to meet again. Hell, he wanted her back here tomorrow. He wanted her to stay with him and never leave him. He was also prepared to admit to himself that with Ruth under his roof, he was less likely to mope, endlessly playing in a loop through his mind all the things he could have done differently during his time as section head of counter terrorism. He had often acted in anger, or frustration, and sometimes he had acted without giving full consideration to the lives of his officers, considering them experienced enough to look after their own safety.

He helped Ruth load her case into the boot of her car, and then as she opened the driver's side door, she turned to face him. He was standing quite close to her, and as he leaned towards her she reached up and placed a quick kiss on his lips. Given she had taken him by surprise, he reacted quickly. He reached out with one hand and placed it on her hip in a proprietary manner. He watched her face as her eyes widened. Then he reached down to place his lips on hers. The kiss was more than a quick peck, but less than a snog. He wanted her to remember the kiss, and to long for it to happen again. He knew he kissed well, even though it had been some time since he'd kissed a woman and meant it.

When he felt Ruth lean into him he slowly pulled away from her. "About seeing one another again," he said. He saw the look of objection on her face. He smiled into her eyes, knowing he'd timed the kiss perfectly.

"What about it?" she said. "I have so much on during the next two weeks, but after that .."

"I can wait," he said. "I've waited almost seven years. I can wait a bit longer."

Ruth nodded, looked down and then up at him, and then before she decided against it, she placed both hands against his cheeks, cradling his face in her hands, as she'd done almost seven years earlier. Then she kissed him. As the kiss continued she began to smile, and so she pulled away, a smile still softening her face. "I don't think I can wait another seven years, Harry."

"Nor me."

"Stay well," she said, and then she slid into her car, and he closed the door behind her. As she backed the car and then slowly drove down the drive, Harry sighed, again feeling the heaviness in his body.

* * *

It was well after lunch before he sat down with a cup of coffee and opened the parcel Ruth had given him. _Remembering Michael._ So who the hell is Michael? Harry began reading at the beginning. An hour passed, and then another, and it was four o'clock, and he hadn't taken his walk to the beach. Bugger the beach, he thought. The book was more important, and he was beginning to understand what it was about. Michael and Grace, and Michael's wife, Thora - a love triangle. There was something about this story which spoke to him. It was personal, and not only did he understand it, he _felt_ it. He knew these people - the distant and busy Michael, and the optimistic and trusting Grace. He was bewildered by Thora, the cold and demanding spouse of Michael, who relied too heavily on him. He read one more chapter, and then saw that not only did Thora rely too heavily on Michael, but so did Michael depend upon Thora; he _needed_ her. Why? Thora's family had money, class and prestige in their village, and Michael needed all three. Still .. by page 120, Harry was beginning to resent Michael's weakness and dependence, and to champion Grace, the woman who really loved him.

It was close to four-thirty when Harry closed the book, using a paper serviette as a bookmark. Bloody hell! What was wrong with him? He had allowed himself to get hooked into a love story, although to be fair, it was a love story written by Ruth. It was not one of those densely woven literary works, but nor was it a saccharine and sentimental tale of love-by-numbers. It was clear to him as a reader that Ruth had loved and lost. The emotion was real, the confusion experienced by Michael was believable, and he even understood the cold Thora. She was familiar to him, but he didn't know why. Was the story about them, or was this some other love triangle, perhaps one she had experienced in the previous six and a half years? Was Ruth, by gifting this book to him, allowing him a glimpse into her life during the years they had spent apart?

Harry decided that despite the lateness of the hour, he needed to take a walk to the beach, but when he looked through the kitchen window he could see it was raining. The rain was not pouring from the sky, but was more of a heavy drizzle. He was not about to go out in that. Deciding that an early dinner might keep him busy, he open the door of the refrigerator and looked inside. Pork chops and baby potatoes it was, then. Thanks to Graham, he even had enough greens for a salad. Suddenly eating healthily held appeal for him, where only a week earlier he would have opened a can of something and eaten it with toast. He was distracted from his dinner-preparation by the ringtone of his mobile phone. He really hoped it was Ruth. When he checked the identity of the caller, he was not really disappointed.

"Graham?" he said, "Is anything wrong?"

"Why does something have to be wrong just because I'm calling you?"

"No reason. Habit, I guess."

"Is Ruth still there?"

"No. Why do you ask?"

"I hope you didn't send her away, or scare her off."

Harry wanted to answer with some sarcastic remark, but he also recognised that his son appeared to genuinely care about why Ruth was not still with him. "She only spent one night here .. and thank you for making up the bed in the spare room."

"So she slept in the spare room."

"Well .. yes. We hadn't seen one another for over six years, Graham. I wasn't about to -"

"- make a move."

"I didn't say that, and I don't think you and I should be having this conversation."

"Why not? Someone has to guide you through this."

Harry smiled, but resisted an urge to laugh aloud. Was this a case of the child parenting the parent? "Why do you care, Graham?"

Harry heard his son sigh heavily. "Because, I don't want to have to visit you in some depressing nursing home, spoon feeding you runny custard which then dribbles down your chin."

"And you think that won't happen if I .. get closer to Ruth."

"I think it's more likely you will look after yourself if she is with you. Besides, despite her being young enough to be your daughter, I think she's probably rather good for you."

"She's not young enough to be my daughter. She's almost forty-three. And how is it you know anything at all about her? You only met her for a minute or two."

"I got a good vibe from her, and I think she cares for you .. and when you talk about her it's clear that ..."

This time it was Harry who sighed. Time to change the subject. "When are you coming here next? Ruth gave me some ideas for the garden."

"That's the reason I called. I've been offered shifts every day for the next five days, so I have to take the work when it's on offer."

They talked for a few more minutes until Graham announced that his shift began in twenty minutes and so he had to go. Harry put his phone on the table top and sighed heavily. With no visits from Graham to distract him he would have to find new ways to entertain himself.

* * *

Five hours later, Ruth arrived home from her meeting with her British publisher, pleased that they had been able to speak the same language to one another. The meeting had gone rather well, and so Ruth was looking forward to working with Heather Matheson. It was only just after nine, but Ruth was tired. It had been a long and rather exciting day, and all she wanted to do was crawl into bed and mull over her time with Harry. After a quick shower, Ruth climbed into her bed and shuffled down under the duvet before she turned out the light beside her bed.

Around twenty minutes passed and she was still wide awake, chiefly wondering whether Harry was still awake. Of course he would be. It had barely gone nine-thirty. Ruth had only just sat up in bed and turned on the light, having decided to give Harry a quick ring, when her phone rang from the bedside table. She picked it up, and when she saw who was calling, her heart began to thump wildly in her chest.

"Harry?" she answered, annoyed with herself that her cheeks, neck and throat felt hot. "Is something wrong?"


	6. Chapter 6

_"The next time we met you were accompanied by Thora. I was cool towards you, while you were cold. I found Thora pleasant, but disconnected - from me, you, and the world in general. I wasn't to know then that she occupied her own universe, where only a few were allowed entry. I wondered were you a regular visitor to Thora's World, or did she leave you out in the cold, waiting patiently to be invited inside._

 _It was part way during that evening that I decided I should accept Eddie's invitation to the Friday night dance in Wellbourne."_

* * *

"Is this too late to be calling you?"

"Of course not," Ruth answered. "I was thinking of calling you."

"How was your meeting?"

"You rang me to ask about my meeting with my publisher?"

"Only in part."

"I was pleased with the meeting," Ruth said. "She's with me on not wanting the book to be sold to be made into a TV series. My US publisher has been trying to convince me to sell the rights to a TV network, but I'm resisting."

"But you could make a lot more money were you to sell the rights, and think of all the books you'd sell as a result."

"I didn't write it for the money."

Harry waited for her to say more, but she didn't. "Then .. why did you write it?"

"For the same reason anyone writes anything. Because it was inside me screaming to get out."

"You make it sound like an alien baby."

"In a way it was." Ruth hesitated, wanting to ask him, but almost not brave enough. "Have you ..."

"Begun reading your book? Yes. I'm around a third the way through."

"What happened to your walk today?"

"I found the book to be more interesting. Besides, it was raining, so I was house bound."

"Are you .. enjoying it?"

"I'm surprised that I am."

"Surprised?"

"I don't usually read love stories. It's not my favourite genre."

"I'm not sure it's truly a love story in the usual sense."

"Whatever you say, Ruth. I have to ask you something, though. The character of Thora feels like someone I should know, but I can't think who it could be."

"I expect you to be able to recognise all three main characters, but maybe not until you're closer to the end."

"You're not about to tell me, are you?"

"I don't want to spoil it for you."

Harry hesitated. He already suspected that Michael and Grace were meant to represent he and Ruth, but he didn't wish to make that observation so soon after they had met again. They continued to chat about other things; Harry told her about Graham getting more work, while Ruth related how she was stuck in a traffic jam on the way back to London from his cottage. "There was a lorry jackknifed across three lanes, and I was held up for an hour and a half."

Harry asked her what she had done while she waited, and she had confessed that she had taken out her notebook and written the next two pages of the first draft of the first chapter of her second novel. "Resourceful as always," he said playfully, and Ruth laughed throatily.

Thus began their nightly pre-bedtime calls to one another. Sometimes Harry would make the call, while at other times it was Ruth who called. Sometimes one or other of them was busy during the evening, so they would ring later, after they had climbed into bed. They never mentioned that they were each in bed during their calls. Neither was quite ready for that door to be opened. The anonymity provided by not being able to see one another as they spoke left them free to be more open than they would have had they been in the presence of the other. Over the next few weeks their nightly calls became pivotal to each day. From the moment he opened his eyes each morning Harry counted the hours until his evening phone call with Ruth. During even the busiest of days Ruth found her mind wandering to something Harry had said on the phone the previous evening, and she'd find herself smiling.

They spoke about the people who were forever gone from their lives – the people they had loved as family, but who had been sacrificed for some `greater good' – and they laughed and sometimes almost cried while they spoke of those they would never see again.

They spoke about wandering the world – Ruth for over six years, and Harry for six months – and they were able to share stories and impressions of places they had each visited, but at different times.

They found that, despite the pain of their parting and the unease of their reunion, they were able to find some amusement in the lives they had each lived during the intervening years. Ruth told Harry more about her time with George, and despite him feeling a surge of jealousy whenever she spoke of her life with George, he had also had to acknowledge that George had cared for her and provided her with a refuge, and he couldn't have asked for more than that from any man. Harry refused to talk about his occasional liaisons with other women, stating they were not important enough for him to be sharing with her.

Sometimes they spoke of the mundane details of their days; she would mention a man who had bought four copies of her book, one for each his wife, mother, daughter, and daughter-in-law, while Harry would tell her how he had negotiated a deal on the hire of a rotary hoe, and Graham was to spend a few days at the cottage, assisting him while he dug up the back yard.

"People will think you're burying bodies, Harry."

"Or looking for them," he added. "Why do you think I chose to live a long way from prying eyes?"

"So that you can walk around your back garden naked." Ruth's comment, meant as a joke, had brought an abrupt end to that particular conversation.

By the evening of the fourteenth day after Ruth had left Harry's cottage to drive back to London. Ruth admitted to herself that she was in danger of falling in love with Harry all over again. Perhaps she had never _not_ loved him. Perhaps she had tried to continue to love him through George and Grant, although that was something of an idea too strange, even for her. She suspected that Harry, being the loyal man he was, had never stopped loving her, even when he was attempting to move on with other women. The words had not been spoken, but they each understood what had transpired while they'd conducted those sometimes long and meandering phone conversations.

They spoke of the lonely days and nights they had each endured during the time they had been apart, and by the beginning of the third week since Ruth had visited him at his cottage, they each had privately admitted to themselves that to remain apart was no longer an option.

* * *

Almost three weeks after Ruth's visit to his cottage Harry was about to enter a large and rambling Tudor-styled hotel in Norwich. No doubt the original hotel was in there somewhere, steeped in history, while the various wings which had been added over time gave the building a drunken, uncoordinated appearance.

As he entered the foyer, where he and Ruth had arranged to meet, he caught sight of his reflection in the glass doors. Dressed in black slacks, an open-necked shirt in deep burgundy, topped by a light-weight black blazer, Harry was surprised by how smart he looked. His hair could have done with a cut, but he'd not had time between Ruth asking him to be her plus one at the dinner, and having to organise something respectable to wear. Harry had been relieved that Graham had opted to stay for a few days to help with the reconstruction of the back garden, and his son had insisted he peruse his father's wardrobe in search of a suitable outfit.

"It's all a bit conservative, Dad," Graham had commented once he'd looked at everything Harry had hanging in his wardrobe.

"That's because I'm a conservative man," Harry had countered, to which Graham had pursed his lips and returned to the wardrobe, determined to find _something_.

"The thing is," Graham had said once he'd dragged the burgundy shirt from the back of the wardrobe, "is Ruth going to like you in this?"

"I've no idea. I like to think she's not shallow enough to be swayed either way by what I'm wearing."

Again Graham had drawn his lips together, and again he'd dived into the wardrobe. It had taken another twenty minutes for them to agree on an outfit for Harry to wear to the dinner. Harry had been planning to wear a tie, while Graham had reacted in horror at the suggestion. "This isn't some security services knees up, Dad. This is a gathering of creative minds."

So Harry had relented, and he was glad he had.

He was excited at the prospect of seeing Ruth again. He glanced around the foyer, which apart from a group of businessmen, was almost empty. A notice board just inside the doorway announced that the Melios Publishing dinner was to be held in the Cavell Room. It was when he stood in the centre of the foyer, looking around him for signs of Ruth, that from the corner of his eye he saw a figure approach him. It wasn't Ruth, but a mid-forties woman with her dark hair cut in a sharp, geometric bob.

"You fit the description Emma gave me," she said opaquely. "She's inside. She's in great demand."

"Demand?" he asked, staring hard at the woman, who as yet had to identify herself to him.

"I'm sorry," she said with a little laugh, "I'm Heather Matheson. I'm in charge of new fiction at Melios. Emma is our latest star. Everyone wants a piece of her."

"Harry Pearce," he said, offering his hand.

So much for a sweet and private reunion. After shaking the woman's hand, Harry followed her to a reception room just outside the Cavell Room, where the dinner was to be held. Perhaps forty people were in the room, dotted around the area in smaller groups. On the far side of the reception room Harry could see a group of around seven people encircling the small figure of a brown-haired woman. Bees around a honey pot, Harry thought.

"I'll leave you two to find one another," Heather Matheson said. "You don't need me hovering," and she was gone, disappearing into a group of people to Harry's left.

Very slowly Harry approached the group of people surrounding Ruth. When he was closer he stopped and watched her. She appeared happy. She was animated as she spoke to an older woman with orange hair. He willed her to look up, and when she did her face underwent a transformation so complete that he couldn't help but smile. As Ruth extracted herself from her group of admirers and made her way to him, he was sure he was smiling so widely that parts of his face would break off.

As she drew closer Ruth reached out with both hands and he grasped them in his. They just stood there, smiling at one another, both lost for words. As much as Harry wanted to kiss her, this room was far from private, and Ruth now had an image to uphold, so they just stood there, looking into the eyes of the other, their hands tightly grasped, until a man in a grey suit announced that dinner was about to begin.

* * *

Almost four hours later Harry was driving them both through the outskirts of Norwich. "Heather can certainly talk," he said.

Ruth's only response was to place her hand over her mouth as she yawned. "Sorry. It's been a long day at the end of a long week." Harry had nothing to say to that, so they lapsed into a silence which lasted almost fifteen minutes. Long silences were not uncomfortable for either of them, so he was concentrating on the road ahead when next Ruth spoke. "I had no idea there would be that many people there," she said. "Heather told me it would just be a few people from the company, some managers of the book shop chains, and one or two other local writers who had recently been signed."

"You handled it very well, Ruth."

"Oh, I don't know. I was constantly worried that someone would recognise me, and ask awkward question. I'm meant to be dead, Harry."

He glanced towards her to see her face turned to his, her dark eyebrows drawn together with worry. "Sooner or later someone is bound to recognise you, especially if you're with me. It's almost a given."

"I did wonder why you're using your real name."

"I figured that anyone who'd want to cause me grief would have transferred their interest to those still in the service. I'm not at all worried for my own safety."

"But you're worried for mine. I can tell."

Harry took a deep breath before he changed gears and negotiated the turn-off which would take them towards the coast. "I can't help it, Ruth. I think it's second nature, but on paper there is no threat. Oliver Mace is somewhere in the Balkans, no doubt rustling up support for his twisted cause. He's not welcome back here. Jason Belling, on the other hand .."

"What about him?"

"He's been spotted in Zagreb, Paris, London, and even Edinburgh. I have no idea what he's up to these days."

Ruth sighed, and then changed the subject. Stories about the world of the security service always left her feeling unsettled. "I've told Heather I'll do radio interviews, but not television," she said. "She just assumes I'm overly shy."

Harry glanced across at her, smiling. "Shy isn't a word I'd attribute to you, at least not after watching you tonight." He slowed to take a sharp bend in the road, and then continued. "I think I had around five different people ask me was I Michael in your novel."

"They were probably the same five who asked me the same question. What did you tell them?"

"I said they should ask you."

Harry was relieved when Ruth laughed lightly. The discussion about her safety had worried her, and the last thing they needed was for Ruth to go scuttling back into her shell. "You still haven't told me who Thora is .. that is, if Michael and Grace are me and you."

"I'd rather you figure it out, Harry," and she returned to staring out the passenger side window.

Minutes later the car came to a stop outside Harry's house, next to the small blue car. "Graham is here?" Ruth commented.

"He and I have been preparing the back garden for tomorrow. Sorry .. I forgot to tell you." Harry had turned off the ignition and sat back against his seat.

"Tomorrow?"

"He had a friend – Seb – whose parents run a wholesale gardening supply business. Tomorrow he's bringing plants and seedlings and mulch, and he and Graham – and me, no doubt – are to spend tomorrow planting out the lot. I should have warned you, but in the excitement of this evening I forgot all about it."

When he turned to look at Ruth, she was smiling at him. "I suppose we should go inside."

"I'll get your bag," Harry said, opening his door.

* * *

There were lights on inside, but no sign of Graham.

"I'll take my bag upstairs," Ruth said, reaching to take it from Harry's hand.

"First things first," he said, placing her bag on a chair, out of her reach. "I've waited all night for this."

He stepped towards her and slid his hands around her waist, slowly drawing her closer until their bodies touched. He didn't want to be moving too quickly, but he'd not had a chance to kiss her, and he was not about to forego the opportunity. Her smile was encouraging, as she gazed up at him, her glance moving from his eyes to his mouth. He reached down to place a gentle kiss on her lips, when a sound from the doorway had them springing apart.

"I'm really sorry about this, but something has happened, Dad, and I think you should know."

Harry still had one hand on Ruth's waist, while one of her hands rested on his upper arm. Harry needed to get rid of Graham quickly. "Can't it wait until morning?" he asked, trying and failing to hide his irritation.

"It could, but tomorrow will be busy, and with Seb here we can hardly discuss this."

Suddenly Ruth stepped away from Harry, reaching to grasp the handles of her bag. "I'll go upstairs and get settled. You two can talk in private."

Before either man was able to object, Ruth was half way up the stairs.


	7. Chapter 7

_"I never told you about the day I spied you in London. You were standing outside a shoe shop in Regent Street. At first I thought nothing of it. Perhaps you were buying shoes. Then a blond woman wearing a red scarf walked right up to you and kissed you on the mouth. Had I not seen the distaste on your face as you pulled away from her I would have believed you to be having an affair. Then you spoke quickly to one another, and she handed you the handkerchief she'd used to wipe her lipstick from your mouth. It was when you turned and walked away that I knew I had witnessed an exchange between spies. My heart was beating like a bird's. I was almost certain that I knew something Thora didn't know. From that day I felt closer to you."_

* * *

"That was smooth," Harry said, once Ruth had reached the second landing. "Your timing could not have been worse."

"I know, and I'm sorry, but Ruth's not the type to get angry over this, and I'd rather discuss this with you alone. That way you can decide how much she needs to know."

Harry sighed heavily before heading into the kitchen to make a pot of tea. "I just hope she comes downstairs afterwards."

"Sit down, Dad. I'll make the tea."

Seven minutes later they were sitting at the kitchen table, a pot of tea between them. Harry had already decided to keep his mouth shut and allow Graham to tell his story. After all, it might be important.

"Before I begin I need to ask you something," Graham began. When Harry nodded, he continued. "That first day Ruth came here, and I sent her down to the beach to wait for you, was there anyone in the dunes near the pathway through to the beach?"

For a moment Harry frowned as he recalled that day. His first thought was of the joy he'd felt when he'd seen her standing there, between the dunes and the sea, waiting for him. His very next thought had been fear for her safety, but he'd soon quashed that as he recognised such fear as an habitual reaction he'd long associated with his loss of Ruth from his life. "There was no-one. We saw no-one else that day. Why do you ask?"

"Before I sent Ruth to wait for you at the beach, I warned her about dodgy types who frequent the dunes. I'd seen this guy there a couple of times, and I assumed him to be one of those voyeuristic types who hide in the dunes while they masturbate."

Harry frowned. "You sent her down there knowing that a pervert frequented the beach?"

"But he wasn't there, was he?"

"No. Not on that day. What's this about, Graham?"

Graham moved uncomfortably in his chair. "I saw this same guy in Yarmouth."

"And? It's highly likely he's a local."

"But he's not a local."

"How do you know?"

Again Graham wriggled in his chair, as though he was having difficulty getting comfortable. "He's staying in a hotel in Yarmouth for .. several months. His name is Derek Mitchell, but he prefers to be called Mitch."

Harry sat back, his mind filling in the gaps. If this man is staying in Yarmouth, why would he choose a dune this far away for `recreational activities'? "How do you know this?" he asked.

"Maddie works at the hotel."

"Maddie?"

"A girl I've been seeing."

"Is it serious?"

"Of course not."

"I had to ask."

"I know."

When Graham said nothing more, Harry decided to play Devil's Advocate. "That of itself is not terribly suspicious, Graham."

"Maddie is a domestic at the hotel. One of her jobs is to clean the rooms and make the beds."

Harry stared hard at his son. "She's gone through his things?"

"When I showed an interest in this man, she took a … cursory look through his bag."

" _Jesus_."

"She wore surgical gloves. She wears them whenever she cleans the bathrooms. She's been doing it since she saw an episode of _CSI_ , or one of those shows, where a hotel domestic worker was implicated in the murder of a guest." Harry rolled his eyes. "The strange thing is, he had a note book in his bag, and the writing was in another language, and Maddie says he speaks with a slight accent ... and yet he has a rather typically English name."

"He may have spent years working overseas."

"My instincts tell me that he is not just some random sleaze .. and he's been in the area for almost three months."

"Have you ever witnessed him masturbating?" Graham shook his head. Harry rubbed his fingers across his forehead, something he did when he was worried. "Thank you for .. telling me about him."

"What will you do?"

"For now there is nothing I can do. I need to know more about him, and who he is here to .. watch. Is it me, or is it you, or maybe neither?"

" _Me_? Why would anyone be watching me?"

"You used to shoot heroin into your arm. Do you owe anyone money?"

"Of course not. Mum paid off everyone I owed money to."

Harry sighed heavily. Of course she did. "Then you owe your mother," he said gruffly.

"I know. Why do you think I'm share-housing with a bunch of other guys while I work at a job which I don't especially enjoy? I still owe her around £1500."

£1500. Dear God. "Had you come to me for the money -"

"You would have sent me packing."

"Probably, but then I would have sought out this supplier, and given him the fright of his life."

"That's what Mum said, and she didn't want that." Again Harry sighed. What had become of the bright and inquisitive curly-haired toddler his son had been? "Will you tell Ruth?"

"I'll have to. She has a right to know."

"And you don't think he's here to follow her?"

"Not if he's been staying in Great Yarmouth for three months, and Ruth's in London. And it's hardly the height of the spring season at this latitude. Clearly whoever it is doesn't mind being seen. I have one request before I set things in motion."

"Of course."

"I need a photograph of this man – preferably a passport photo, but I don't expect that. Just a photo where his face can be identified. What age is he?"

Graham shrugged. "Older than me, and younger than you. I'd say he's somewhere between thirty-five and late forties, but he might be a twenty-eight-year-old who's led a hard life."

During the lull in conversation they both heard the shower turn off, and then the rush of water as the toilet flushed. Harry glanced at his son, who lifted his eyes to the rooms above them. "You'd better make amends," Graham said, and Harry nodded.

* * *

Harry didn't immediately seek out Ruth. He headed straight to his own bedroom and changed for bed – his warm grey track pants, dark blue t-shirt, slippers, and a dressing gown, which he tied tightly around his waist. He knew not to expect anything to happen between he and Ruth on this night, but he had to talk to her, and he quite wanted to try for some kissing.

Once he heard Graham close his bedroom door, he headed to the bathroom to use the toilet, and then to clean his teeth, and wash his hands and face. As he reached Ruth's bedroom door he waited and listened. It was when he noticed the pale sliver of light shining under the door that he knocked gently and waited. He only had to wait a few seconds before Ruth opened the door, grasped his hand, and drew him inside. "I thought you'd never get here," she said, dragging him towards the bed, where he sat, while she climbed under the covers. An open book lay face down on top of the duvet. "If you like you can get into bed with me," Ruth said, quickly glancing up at him and then away.

"It's all right, Ruth. I'm quite comfortable here. We're still quite close."

"Except for a thick layer of bedding."

Harry watched her for a little longer than necessary, and once she broke eye contact with him he explained himself. "With Graham under the roof with us I don't especially want to begin something we can't finish. His friend is arriving in the morning, and I believe they both have to be back in Yarmouth by mid afternoon."

Ruth understood his meaning, and again looked into his eyes and smiled. "I look forward to that."

"In the meantime," Harry added, "I'm expected to help them with the planting tomorrow, and I'll probably need your input occasionally." He watched her face as she looked down, and then back up at him, her eyes moving between his hair, his eyes, and his mouth. He was pleased to see her eyes lingering on his mouth.

"I can help in the garden. I'm not completely useless."

"I know, but I don't expect that. It's not your house."

Ruth watched him closely, but he said nothing to clarify his statement. "I'm glad your offer on this house was accepted," she said at last.

"I think I may have been the only one to have submitted a serious offer. I believe the owner waited as long as he did hoping he'd receive a better offer."

"And your London house?"

"It's been on the market for around a month. There's been quite a lot of interest, but nothing solid yet."

They hesitated, not knowing where to take things next. Harry knew that he should talk to Ruth about what Graham had told him, but he also didn't wish to spoil the delicate atmosphere of promise which had grown between them since they'd arrived home from Norwich. More than anything, Harry wanted to crawl under the duvet with Ruth and make love to her. It was a drive which was in danger of taking over not only his private thoughts, but also his body, and if the signs she was giving him were genuine, Ruth felt the same way. He had to stop this before either one of them made the first move.

"We can't do anything tonight, Ruth."

"I know. Graham is just along the corridor."

Harry nodded. "I'm here in your bedroom because I wanted to share with you what Graham told me."

"Very well," Ruth said, and she sat back against the padded headboard of her bed. Harry very nearly lost his resolve to keep his distance from her, but once he began Graham's story, he was able to override the drives of his body.

"And so what do you propose to do about this? You're no longer part of the security service, Harry. This man is hardly your problem." Which is when Harry sat back, his face no longer impassive. "What is it? What are you not telling me?"

Of course Ruth would be able to read him. She always could. He could never keep secrets from her .. or not for long. "There is something I should tell you. It's about information which I have in my possession, and what may happen were knowledge of this to get into the wrong hands."

"But surely you don't keep such evidence here .. in this house."

"No. I always keep what I have ... elsewhere." He looked down, and scratched a fingernail along a line of the pattern on the duvet before again looking at Ruth. "I would never put myself in danger like that, nor would I endanger my children, and I'm certainly not about to put your life in jeopardy, Ruth."

"Are you sure this Mitchell fellow is watching you? Perhaps he's watching Graham .. or even me."

Harry shook his head. "The style of his surveillance .. for want of a better word .. is one used by agents the world over. They sit or stand somewhere you can't miss them, pretending to ignore you, and then they disappear, only to turn up somewhere else. The message is loud and clear. Harry took a deep breath and absently looked around the room. "The .. information which I have is in electronic form, and I have it stored in a safety deposit box in London, and just in case I die before the information becomes obsolete .." Harry lowered his voice. "I have the device stored inside an old teddy bear which Graham had when he was small. He thinks he lost the bear on a weekend visit to me when he was five, but months later I found it on top of a wardrobe, and by that time I'd given him another teddy bear."

"Who is it knows you have this .. information?"

"Most members of the former JIC would be aware of some of what I know, and I once considered that a good thing. I'd looked at the information I have as an insurance policy. Many of the people who know I have it are not directly implicated in the information, but nor would they look good if the information was leaked."

"You said this information will eventually become obsolete."

"Yes. Eventually the people concerned will retire .. and then die. Much of it is copies of memos and emails and letters written between members of the British Cabinet, but the most damning is a series of communications between the PM and the US President, as well as between our PM and the PM of Iraq – the one put there by the Americans."

"But, Harry .. it's no secret that the continuing conflict in the Middle East is about oil."

"And don't forget the arms suppliers in both countries." Harry shifted his body so that he sat more comfortably on the bed, but his bottom was resting against Ruth's legs, which provided a temporary distraction. "Sorry," he said, attempting to move away.

Ruth reached out and lay her hand on his arm. "You're fine. No, don't move away." When he'd relaxed a little she continued. "What do you plan to do about Mitchell?"

"There's not a lot I can do, but in the morning I'll email Malcolm and give him as many details as I have. He's the only person I know who has access to eighty percent of the CCTV systems in the UK."

"So .. what you have hidden in a safety deposit box in London will lift the lid on the wars which the Blair government dragged us into?"

"In a way. It's more to do with the true agenda of the government – any government – and the scant attention and care paid to the well-being of the general public, the public I spent my career attempting to protect. It's not just carelessness and tunnel vision, Ruth. I have evidence that the democracy we like to believe we live in does not exist. This isn't another conspiracy theory - this is proof, hand written and signed by the people concerned."

"And what do you intend doing with it?"

"If it's found in my possession, the true nature of what I have will be covered up, and I would most likely be found guilty of treason and sent to prison." Harry noticed Ruth's slight frown of worry. "I suppose I could have destroyed it, but I currently have it written into my Will that once I die, the contents on that electronic device should be published."

"I think you should have destroyed it. No-one who values their life would want to publish it."

Harry gave her a lopsided smile. "I thought you might say that."

"I don't want your life being in danger, Harry."

"You see, I don't think it is. I believe that whoever it is trying to give me a message - if that is what is happening - they are just letting me know that they know. They will gain nothing from my death, because with my death the information will then see the light of day."

"I don't even want to know what's on that electronic storage, and I hope you never have to use that information."

"So do I." Harry had said enough, and he and Ruth were both tired. It was after midnight, and Seb was arriving straight after breakfast. "I should go to bed." He didn't want to. He'd rather have stayed with Ruth.

As if reading his mind, she said, "You don't have to."

"I do." Harry slid off the bed and stood, looking down at Ruth. "If I don't leave now," he said quietly, "I never will. We have plenty of time, Ruth."

Rather meaningfully, Ruth slide across the bed and lifted the duvet. "Just a cuddle, Harry. That's all."

He sighed, knowing he should leave, but he didn't want to leave. He wanted far more than a cuddle, but he'd settle for that. With his eyes holding hers, he removed his slippers and his dressing gown and climbed under the duvet. It was late, and they were both tired, and the time for being coy belonged in those few months before Ruth had had to leave London. Harry turned on his side and slid his arms around Ruth. He smiled when she nestled against him, resting her head against his shoulder, and winding her arms around his waist. They lay like that for some minutes. It was nice; their bodies were warm, and it felt natural to be lying together in that way. It was when Ruth began wriggling to get comfortable, her hips pressing against his groin that he let out an unconscious groan. "God," he said. "That's .."

"Sorry." She pulled her body away from his. "I wasn't thinking."

"Don't," he replied, grasping her hips and pulling her against him. When he looked down at her she was gazing up at him. The kiss which she initiated was the first passionate kiss they had shared, and Harry wanted it to last forever. He felt his body responding to her proximity - her warmth, the curves of her body, her hips pressing against him, the tangling of her tongue around his - and he slid one hand under her top until his fingers found the soft skin of her breast. This time it was Ruth who moaned as he circled her nipple with one fingertip. "We really should -" he said, but his words were swallowed by her mouth, as she kissed him again. Her hands had lifted his t-shirt, her fingertips circling the skin of his back. He was lost in her, as he knew he would be. "Ruth -" he said, as with one last burst of self control he pulled away from her. "I don't know about you, but I can't make love quietly."

His words, spoken in all seriousness, broke the spell, and Ruth lay back on her pillow and giggled, one hand covering her mouth. "Me neither," she said.

Harry quickly climbed out of bed and pulled on his dressing gown and slippers, then he turned towards Ruth, gazing down at her, and hoping he'd be able to leave . He leaned down to place a soft kiss on her lips, allowing it to linger for a moment, but pulled away before reaching the moment when he'd be tempted to crawl back under the covers with her.

"Good night, Ruth," he said, and he turned from her and left the room. He chanced one more quick glimpse back at her to see her watching him, before he quietly closed the door behind him. Glancing towards Graham's room, he saw the door closed, a thin beam of light glowing under the door. He crept along the corridor to his own room, and to bed.


	8. Chapter 8

_"Don't ask questions, Grace. Just a yes or no will suffice."_

 _"Is it dangerous?"_

 _"Of course it's bloody dangerous. I thought you were committed to helping the war effort."_

 _She glanced up into his eyes, pale grey eyes which saw through her. "Where shall I hide it?"_

 _"In plain sight is best. Where do you keep your paperwork? You know, accounts and bills, letters .. that sort of thing."_

 _"In this drawer," she said, opening a wide drawer under the wooden table which took up most of the floor space in her cramped kitchen."_

 _"Not ideal, but it will have to do. Here," Michael said, handing her a bulky brown envelope._

* * *

Seb Burton was a powerhouse. He'd arrived just after eight, while Harry and Ruth were sitting over a leisurely pot of tea, and Graham was in the back garden, opening the gate in the garden wall to allow Seb to back in his trailer. No sooner had he jumped from the cab of his bright red Nissan pickup than Seb was working, removing black plastic pots containing shrubs and seedlings. He needed Graham's help to carry the fruit trees – a peach, apricot, orange, nectarine, and lemon – from the back of the pickup to the edge of the lawn. Seb was taller than both Graham and Harry, with strong arms and thighs. Despite the distinct chill in the air, the dew on the grass, and the fog still hovering between the branches of the trees behind the house, Seb wore short sleeves and shorts, and on his feet he wore steel capped boots.

They had time to tidy the kitchen after breakfast before Harry changed into a pair of old jeans, a t-shirt and a worn jumper, and headed outside to offer his assistance. Having the house to herself, Ruth took the opportunity to set up her laptop on the desk in the small ground floor office which overlooked the back garden. Once seated she looked around her. Harry had clearly furnished the room, but she doubted it had been used it for anything other than storage. While her system booted she looked through the window to where the three men were already working together like they'd been doing it all their lives. Seb removed items from the back of his truck and handed them to Graham, who placed them strategically around the garden. Harry appeared to be on spade duty, bending his back with each dive of the spade into the earth, softened by the rain which had fallen during the previous day, and again overnight. Ruth wondered had he drawn the short straw; the oldest man of the three had the most physically taxing job. She watched for a few minutes more, and then turned her attention to her writing, losing herself in the broad outline and timeline for the second installment of her story. Grace was getting on with her life as a single woman, working close to the earth on her uncle's farm south-east of Maldon in Essex, while Michael had returned to Thora in an attempt to save his marriage. It was 1947, and for three years there had been no contact between Grace and Michael.

As her fingers flew over the keys, in between her moments of researching historical details on the internet, Harry, Graham and Seb worked steadily, with Graham and Seb freely offering their opinions about where trees and shrubs should be positioned, and Harry listening and then disagreeing. He and Ruth had already discussed the design of the garden, and he was determined to stick to their original plan.

* * *

Ruth soon lost track of time, which was a very good sign. It meant that she had entered her own story and was living there, if only for a few hours. So when she felt movement behind her, she sat up straight, momentarily disconcerted.

"I'm sorry," said a soft voice from behind her. "I've brought you a tea. I didn't mean to interrupt."

When Ruth turned in her chair she saw Harry, hair in disarray, shoeless, a mug of something hot in each hand. "You look .." she began, but could hardly say `bedraggled'.

"I look the way I feel," Harry said, placing a mug of tea on the desk beside Ruth. "Do you mind if .." he added, eyebrows raised, as he indicated a chair near the wall.

"Just bring it closer," she said, taking her cup and blowing across the surface of the liquid. "You look like you could use a break."

They sat in silence for some minutes, each gazing through the window to where Graham and Seb sat on the open tray of Seb's pickup, cans of soft drink in their hands while they talked.

"I'd forgotten how draining physical work can be," Harry said quietly. "You and me, we've each spent the past three hours working, but while you look serene, I'm a wreck."

For the first time Ruth caught the whiff of sweat from Harry's skin. She couldn't remember smelling it on him at any time during their acquaintance. It was not an altogether unpleasant smell. Earthy, human, male - it was another part of him, and for her a new part of him. "You like working," she said, as if stating the obvious.

Harry turned his gaze to the back garden, trying to see it with new eyes. He took a sip of his tea before he spoke. "I do, and as much as I don't like to admit it, I miss my work."

Ruth turned her chair on its castors to face him. "Why did you leave? You were always so good at your job."

Harry reached out to put his mug on the edge of the desk before he sat back to contemplate Ruth's question. "Malcolm didn't tell you?"

"He .. I think he used the words, `disappointed by life' when I asked after you. He gave me few details."

Harry nodded, again looking out at the garden while he organised his thoughts. "I had become progressively more .. jaded with the security service. I used to love my work. Even after you'd had to leave London I still mostly enjoyed working. It had always given my life meaning. Then around .. three or so years ago – maybe more – I felt the pressure of other agendas." Harry's mouth twisted as he remembered the often impossible decisions he'd had to make. "I kept thinking that you had sacrificed all but your life to ensure I kept doing what I believed in."

"I have never regretted my decision, Harry."

"Well .. I began to regret it. I saw how much I needed you in my working day. Things were happening both domestically and internationally which challenged all levels of the security services. Then politicians began using us to further their own personal agendas."

"I suspect they always did."

"I began to see what I did, what I _believed_ I was doing, as little more than a game – a game which politicians and corporate entities played, and in which I'd always been complicit." He stared through the window while he continued. "There was a series of incidents which occurred when a Russian group came to London for talks. There were .. deaths .. in the Russian group. They happened out of the blue, and although I was not involved, I felt responsible. Almost overnight, Ruth, I lost faith in the rightness of what I did. I simply could not keep doing it." Harry turned to face her, his expression conveying weariness.

"But you miss it."

"I miss what it once was."

"Or what you once believed it was."

"Yes." Harry breathed the word, watching Ruth closely while something else became clear to him. He sat up straight in his chair. "Thora!" he said.

"What about her?"

"She represents my job."

Ruth smiled. "Close."

"Not my job?"

"While you were working for MI-5, who or what were you serving?"

"Queen and country," he said quietly, suddenly recognising the continuing fallout in his personal life over his loyalty to his monarch and his country. Everything else in his life had had to be placed a very distant second. "I'm so sorry, Ruth," he said, leaning forward in his chair. "I let you down .. all because I believed I needed to honour my hierarchy of obligation. I should never have put you behind the country itself."

"Perhaps not, but in that instance I was the one who made the decision on your behalf. I had to keep you out of gaol."

Harry dropped his eyes for a moment, and then again looked at Ruth. "I let you down. I didn't stay in the job."

"I didn't expect you to stay there while it destroyed you," she replied. "At the time I left it seemed like the right thing to do. Now .. now, it feels like a sacrifice too far."

"But you're alive, Ruth."

"Yes, I am."

They held one another's gaze for longer than necessary before Ruth dropped her eyes. Harry knew better than to be upset by her breaking eye contact. Ruth was shy and private, while he was always wanting more – of her, from her.

"The boys are back at work," Ruth said suddenly, having seen movement through the window. "Do you need my help?" she added, turning back to Harry, who shook his head.

"You're working, Ruth, and I have no wish to disturb that."

"I think someone else should do the digging."

He smiled. "I've asked Seb to take over the digging, while Graham and I prepare the back section of the garden for vegetable planting."

Ruth slid her empty mug towards Harry, and returned her attention to her writing. "I need to get cracking, or else I'll lose the plot – literally."

Harry knew he was being dismissed, but he didn't mind.

* * *

After Seb had driven away and Graham, Harry and Ruth had eaten a late lunch, the three of them contemplated the pile of mulch Seb had tipped from his trailer, wondering would it be okay for them to leave the mulch-spreading for another day. Their combined disinterest was like another person in the room.

"If I help we should have it all distributed in a couple of hours, perhaps even less," Ruth said brightly, needing a distraction from an unexpected block in the flow of her writing.

Harry stood, but both Graham and Ruth saw him grab his lower back. "I only have until four-thirty or so, and then I have to leave," Graham said.

They attacked the rather large mound of mulch with gusto, filling buckets and one wheelbarrow with mulch, and tossing it over the turned earth, dark and rich. After fifteen minutes of frantic and disorganised activity it was clear that they needed a system. Thus, Harry filled the wheelbarrow and the largest of the buckets, while Graham wheeled or carried this to a place where Ruth was ready with a rake. Her job was to spread the mulch evenly over the soil. By four-thirty they had spread most of the mulch, and all three were happy to call it a day.

Fifteen minutes later Graham had driven away, and Ruth and Harry were once again alone in the house.

"Time for a cuppa," Ruth said, and she headed inside while Harry removed his boots, padding into the kitchen in just his socks.

"At least the rain held off for us," he said, flopping into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. Outside a light drizzle fell, while the clouds became darker.

They sat over a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits, and neither had very much to say. "You overdid it today," Ruth said, as a statement rather than a question.

Harry sighed. "I suspect I did."

"Why would you do that?" Harry sighed heavily, something he did often when he had no straight answer. "You have no need to compete with younger men."

"I wasn't aware I was."

"Which is why you pushed yourself to near exhaustion."

"I suppose that means I can't expect sympathy from you," he said testily.

"When we've finished this tea I'll run you a hot bath."

"I can do that for myself."

"Harry," Ruth said, reaching out to touch his hand, which he quickly pulled out of her reach, "please let me do this one thing for you."

Ruth waited for what seemed a very long time for him to reply, and then it was just the slightest of nods. It was enough.

* * *

By the time Harry was ready to climb into the bath full of hot water, Ruth had returned downstairs to prepare a beef casserole for their dinner. He slowly eased his tired body into the water, allowing the heat to burn away his disappointment .. but not quite. He had handled things badly with Ruth, and so now she was distancing herself from him. Same old story, then. What had made him believe that with the passage of almost seven years things between them could be different. They were each proud and independent, and to admit weakness, to rely on another was not something either of them did easily. He wanted Ruth in his life, and he suspected the desire was returned by her. They just had to find a way of achieving this end without upsetting one another – no easy task.

Harry leaned back in the bath, submerging his body until the water covered his shoulders. He closed his eyes and began the familiar process of emptying his mind of all thought. It took only minutes for his body to relax, and the pain from the day's exertions to ease.

Forty minutes later Ruth headed upstairs, having put the casserole in the oven and set the timer. There was over an hour before it would be ready to eat, so she decided to check that Harry hadn't fallen asleep in the bath. The bathroom door was ajar and there were no sounds from inside the room, so she knocked gently on the door and entered, poking her head around the door. Harry lay in the bath, with only one knee and his head and shoulders above the surface of the water. His eyes were closed, and when she said his name a little louder, there was no response from him. As she drew closer to him she heard his soft snore as he breathed out. Being already half way across the room, Ruth decided it best she keep going. After all, it would only be a matter of time before she and Harry would be seeing one another naked.

"Harry, you've been in here for ages." She spoke gently as she approached the bath. Still he didn't hear her, so she knelt on the tiles beside the bath and gently placed her hand on his shoulder. "Harry? You need to wake up." His eyes opened slowly, and when he noticed her beside the bath he sat up quickly, disturbing the water so that it slopped up the sides of the bath, lightly splashing Ruth's skin. "The water is almost cold," she said, wiping the droplets from her chin and throat.

Very slowly Harry looked down into the water where the bubbles which had covered the surface of the water at the time he'd fallen asleep had dissolved, so no longer providing a visual barrier between his naked body and the eyes of anyone who happened to stumble into the room. Without thinking it through he placed both hands over his genitals, and then glanced up at Ruth, hoping he'd covered himself in time. He was surprised to see her smiling into his eyes.

"You have nothing I haven't seen before," she said. Her eyes took in his face, and then over his forehead to his hair, which he knew after the day's activities would be wild and unkempt. "Where's your shampoo?"

Harry lifted one hand from his crotch and pointed to the shelf at the other end of the bath.


	9. Chapter 9

**_A/N : Thank you to everyone who is reading this, and especially to those who are reviewing it so enthusiastically. (I am currently writing Ch 22, which as I began it was to be the final chapter, but it seems it's not. Maybe Ch 23 will be the last one - maybe not.)_**

* * *

" _You'll have to stay over," she said, her voice low, and tight with nervousness. Michael turned to give her his full attention. Outside her cottage snow still fell silently, forming an endless white eiderdown tossed over the landscape._

" _Where will I sleep?" he asked, one eyebrow raised, his hands stuffed into his pockets._

" _There's only one bedroom. If you like, you can sleep in my bed .." He removed his hands from his pockets and took two steps towards her. ".. while I'll sleep in the front room."_

" _Oh. I was hoping -"_

" _I could never take advantage of the whiteout, Michael."_

Pity _, he thought. "Whatever you say," he said, smiling._

* * *

With the hypnotic movement of Ruth's fingertips over his scalp, Harry forgot about covering himself as he leaned sideways so that she could better reach his head. As she leaned closer to him he stifled a moan, and she gently drew his head down and towards her. His eyes were closed, and he tried hard to think of something non-arousing, such as pulling weeds, or spreading mulch, or the guy from who-knows-where who appeared to be following either Graham or himself or Ruth, or perhaps none of them. He hoped the man's presence was coincidental and nothing to do with any of them, but given his own history in the service, how likely was that? His efforts to distract himself were in vain as he felt himself slowly growing under the surface of the water.

What Harry didn't know was that Ruth was on her second application of shampoo to his hair, the excess foam from the first rinse now floating on the surface of the water, blocking her view of his body. What he also didn't know was that Ruth was limiting her gaze to his head and shoulders only, having decided as she'd entered the bathroom that she'd resist the temptation to check him out. There would be time for that later, although it was looking less and less like `later' being any time that night.

When she announced that he could wash off the second shampoo, he slid beneath the surface of the water before lifting his head and pushing the water from his face, running his hands over his scalp. When he opened his eyes he saw Ruth smiling at him. "I think I'm at a slight disadvantage here, Ruth."

"You're getting your hair washed," she said. "I wouldn't complain."

Harry moved as if to stand up, and then, remembering that Ruth was kneeling next to the bath, he pointed to the dark blue towel draped over the towel rail behind her. She stood up, grabbed the towel, and then held it out so that he as he stepped out of the water he moved against it. He had to admit that it was a delicate and considerate manoeuvre on her part. Being shy about his body around Ruth was one of those strange and out-of-character responses he had around her that he'd not experienced in his past. Even as he had aged he had still been confident about his body, although as he'd passed his mid fifties, such confidence was no doubt ill-placed.

While he'd wrapped the blue towel around his waist Ruth had grabbed another towel and stepped closer to him, reaching up to rub his hair dry. The closeness of her body to his, the warmth of her breath on his cheek, the pungent scent of her perfume, the curve of her breasts and hips against his bulk .. it all added up to a torrent of temptation at a time when his resistance was low. Harry had only just lifted both arms with the intention of wrapping them around her when she stopped drying his hair and took a step back. "I'll leave you to it," she said, turning to place the second towel over the back of a chair. And then, without another word or a backwards glance, she left the room. Harry stood there and sighed, remembering another time – not long before Ruth had had to leave London – when she had turned to leave him standing alone in a hotel corridor, wondering why wanting her as he did was so upsetting to her.

Ruth had reached the kitchen before she stopped moving. She stood beside the kitchen table and gazed out at the back garden, still visible in the fading light, the leaves of newly planted trees and shrubs glistening with raindrops from a recent downpour. A sudden gust of wind shook the leaves, and she watched as the raindrops were flicked into the air, disappearing from sight. Why did she do that? She'd only ever been overwhelmed by fear when with Harry. Apart from some of her first ever boyfriends, with whom she'd made choices out of fear of being alone, she had only turned and run when things became tense with this man, and yet there had been no man in her life whom she'd desired more than Harry. No-one else had even come close. Even while she was in Cyprus, and then in the US, and with other men, she had always held thoughts of Harry close to her, where she could access them and bring them out whenever she was in need of some uncomplicated comfort. She had expected thoughts of him to have faded with time, but they had only become entrenched in her private inner box of memories of her old life. She had depended on these memories. They had kept her sane and grounded. These memories had reminded her of home.

Ruth turned and opened the oven, rotating the casserole, thinking for a moment that Harry could do with a more efficient cooker. When all else failed, Ruth knew that a cup of tea would settle her, so she occupied herself with making a fresh pot. As she waited for the kettle to boil, she thought about her inconsistent responses to Harry. The night before, when she had invited him into her bed, she was confident he wouldn't stay, and despite her blatant efforts to tempt him, she felt safe in the knowledge that Harry would stick to his word. It was then that she had a sudden flash of insight into her own behaviour. What if the reason she ran away whenever she and Harry became close was to keep them in that perpetual state of anticipation? What if she believed that the consummation of their relationship could never ever live up to the years of anticipation?

She had no time in which to pursue this thought before Harry entered the kitchen dressed in jeans and a thick jumper, his hair curly and uncombed. "Hi," he said, glancing warily in her direction. Ruth stood to get a mug for him, but he stopped her with a hand held out. "I'll get that. You stay there."

Once he'd poured his tea from the pot, Harry sat opposite her at the table and sugared and milked his tea, then they sat in silence for what seemed an eternity. Ruth knew that it would be down to her to shatter the invisible barrier which had arisen between them. She had been responsible for putting it there, so it was her job to attempt to tear it down. "I'm sorry about .. earlier," she said, indicating with a twirl of her fingers that `earlier' meant what had happened upstairs. "I've been wondering about why it is I .. reserve that behaviour for only you."

Harry smiled his lopsided smile, but didn't look up. He had been wondering the same thing, but he wasn't about to interrupt the flow of her thoughts.

Ruth lifted her eyes and then dropped them. "I've never done that – the running from intimacy – with anyone else .. other than when I was rather young and .. afraid of .. the unpredictable behaviour of others." She ran a finger around the rim of her mug, more to prevent herself from looking at Harry than to organise her thoughts. She already knew what she needed to say. "I think .. I know .. what it is pushes me to keep doing that, and it's not because I have a need to hurt you, or to keep you at a distance. I've never _actively_ wanted to keep you away."

Harry nodded, glancing up at her quickly, and then dropping his eyes.

"I believe it's because .. there are those times when we are together – like in the bathroom earlier – that the tension is so .. exquisite that I don't want it to end. I think .. I believe that I do it to keep that tension occurring. It's ..."

"It's exciting," Harry said quietly, his eyes downcast, "and exhilarating." He visibly hesitated before he continued. "There have been times when just exchanging a glance with you .. takes my breath away." This time they both looked up and held each other's eyes for a few sweet moments before Harry looked away from her to gaze through the window, where heavy cloud cover had created an early darkness.

"Yes," Ruth replied at last. "It's like a drug. I keep wondering what it will be like when we .. get together, and all I can think is that the anticipation of the event may outstrip the reality."

"You're making it hard for me," Harry said, his voice barely audible. "Sorry .. I didn't mean for that statement to have a double meaning, although .."

"I wasn't checking you out while you were in the bath, if that's what you're saying. Okay, so I caught a quick look as I approached the bath, but I didn't see a lot." Ruth lifted her hand from the side of her mug and waved her fingers around as though making a point. "I'm not saying that there wasn't a lot to see. What I mean was I didn't really see .. anything other than pubic hair. I should just shut up now, shouldn't I?"

Harry's smile was wider this time, happier, with no hint of the sadness he'd carried with him when he'd entered the kitchen. "I'm not about to answer that." He sat back in his chair and looked directly at Ruth. "Thank you for your honesty, Ruth. I hope that when we get to .. the bedroom together .. you won't be disappointed."

"Why should I be?"

"All that anticipation .. by both of us .. might take the shine off things."

"I'm really hoping it won't."

"I also have a confession to make, although it's not as profound as your own."

"What's that?"

"I've .. colluded, in a way, to your stalling .. running from intimacy, call it what you will. I've been worried that my body would not be up to scratch."

Ruth frowned a little, taking her time to respond while she tried to determine what his words meant. "What do you mean? Last night it was clear that you could ..."

"Of course. I have no difficulty there, Ruth. It's just that I'm no longer trim and .. taut in my body, and -"

"Nor am I, and I don't expect you to be either. Despite everything which suggests the contrary, I am realistic about us. I know we won't be having exhausting sex several times a day. I don't expect that and I don't want that. I have a novel to write."

Harry's face broke into a wide smile, something in all the years she'd worked with him she'd only rarely seen. "I haven't had exhausting sex several times a day since the early days of my marriage." Noticing the sudden change in Ruth's demeanour, he continued quickly. "Which was a very long time ago. I was still in my twenties at the time." Harry waited, but she had nothing to say to that. "I don't think anything should happen tonight. I'm tired – worn out, really - and you're .."

"I'm what .. Harry?"

"I suspect ... you're in need of more time."

"Perhaps you're right."

"But I think we should share a bed – get used to being close to one another .. if you'd like that."

"I'd .. quite like that, yes."

Despite how slow and painful had been the process, he considered that during the previous fifteen to twenty minutes they had moved a long way together, and in the desired direction.

"Your hair," Ruth said after a while, "it's curly."

"I forgot to comb it. This is how it looks when I let it go."

"I like it."

"You do?"

Ruth nodded, casting her eyes over his head, covered by greying blond hair in soft curls which sat close to his scalp. "Don't change a thing, Harry .. about yourself. You're quite wonderful .. just as you are."

"And I haven't the words to describe how wonderful you are," he replied, his gaze intense.

"We have to decide whose bed we'll be sleeping in," she said, her last ditch attempt at running from the delightful, but still delicate, and even awkward intimacy which had developed since Harry had joined her in the kitchen.

Harry didn't seem to mind her changing the subject. "Whoever goes to bed first gets to choose which bed," he said, like it was an obvious solution.

* * *

It was Harry who first headed upstairs to bed, as they both knew it would be. Ruth stayed in the kitchen while he used the bathroom. Since his room was bigger than the guest bedroom, and his bed was much bigger than her own, it seemed sensible to be sleeping together in his bed.

Ruth took her time in the bathroom, showering and then dressing for bed. By the time she reached Harry's bedroom she expected him to be asleep. Was she still procrastinating? Probably. She tapped gently on the door to his bedroom before entering the room. He was lying on the far side of the bed, turned away from her, as he had been on the first ever night she'd stayed in the house with him. Hanging her dressing gown over the hook on the back of the bedroom door she then quietly got into bed and slid closer to him, unsure about how close to him she should lie.

Ruth nestled behind Harry's back without touching him, and was almost asleep when she felt the mattress beneath her move, and Harry say, "Don't I get a goodnight kiss?" Ruth reached out to receive his kiss before again settling under the duvet. "Turn around, Ruth. I'd like to sleep with my arm around you," Harry added, so Ruth turned her back towards him and waited while he inched closer to her, then slid his arm around her.

"You're warmer than an electric blanket," she said, once they had each shuffled a little until they fitted together, his front against her back.

"I'm glad to be of service," Harry replied, his mouth close to her hair.

They each moved around some more until they were comfortable, and then they became quiet. After a time they both slept.


	10. Chapter 10

_Rain streamed down the windows and the windscreen of Michael's 1934 MG coupe. Grace felt herself leaning closer to him, and she shivered. "It always rains in Norfolk," she said, needing to say something._

 _"I need you to watch the horizon," he said, "for boats."_

 _"I can barely see the front of the car. How ever will I see a boat?"_

 _"You'll see it before me. Your eyes are younger." Michael looked down at the petite figure beside him, his body aching for her. She was too young for him, too available, her life too uncluttered. He shouldn't._

 _"In this weather?" Grace looked up to see Michael leaning towards her, closer, and then closer still. She reached up to draw his face to hers and they kissed. It was a soft kiss, neither quick nor lingering. A kiss which tasted of crown mints - to mask the cigarette he'd smoked while waiting for her in Hemsby - with just a hint of whiskey on his tongue. Grace felt no guilt at all. It was their first kiss, and she prayed it would not be their last._

* * *

Ruth's first awareness as she woke was of the soft glow of the early morning sun from behind the curtains. The second thing was that she was naked. She then turned to see that Harry's side of the bed was empty. She rolled onto her back and closed her eyes, allowing her mind to drift back a few hours to just before dawn when she was woken by Harry's hand caressing the skin of her abdomen underneath her pyjama top. His touch had been surprisingly tender, and while his fingers busily explored her naked skin, she felt his lips kiss the skin of her shoulder all the way to her neck.

By the time she rolled over to face him she had no reservations at all about what was about to happen. "Very tricky," she'd said to him between kisses.

"What do you mean?"

"You've pounced on me when I least expected it, and now I can hardly say no."

"Do you want to say no?" he'd asked her, his voice lazy with arousal.

"Of course not," and he'd chuckled before moving in again for another series of kisses.

In the end she had to tell him that as much as she was enjoying the foreplay they needed to move along. The bedroom had been dark, with the barest glow of moonlight sliding through the gap where the curtains didn't quite meet, and so Ruth had felt confident enough to remove her own pyjama top before she rolled over to slide her fingers inside Harry's clothing. She had been surprised by how soft was his skin, and yet she was soon to discover that the softest of his skin sheathed the hardest part of him, the hardening occurring in a remarkably short time. "It's been a long time for me," he said when she'd commented.

"Me, too," she'd replied.

In the end the joining of their bodies in their first act of love together had occurred quite naturally. The act itself had not taken long, but nor did they expect it to. Afterwards they'd lain side by side, their breathing hard, their skin slick with sweat.

"Why now?" Ruth had asked once her breathing had calmed.

"What do you mean?"

"Why at four in the morning? Why not wait at least until I was awake?"

"I awoke suddenly, and feeling your warmth beside me I couldn't resist you."

"So you leaped in before I could change my mind."

"It worked, didn't it?"

Ruth had nothing to say to that, so she reached out beneath the duvet to grasp his hand. "I still haven't seen you naked," she said quietly.

Harry had chuckled, turning to kiss her cheek. "Shall I turn on the light and parade around the room _au naturel_?"

"It's far too cold for that. I'll .. wait."

"My suggestion is that tonight after dinner we have a bath."

"Together?"

"Preferably, yes."

And they did, but first they spent a lazy day around the house, talking, cooking, and eating. When, in mid afternoon, Harry's mobile phone rang, Ruth took herself off to the small office at the back of the house, and began working on the outline of the second chapter of her novel. She found it difficult to get herself in the right mood, with sensations and memories from the early morning encounter with Harry invading the space she normally reserved for writing. She found herself staring out the window at the light drizzle which had begun falling soon after lunch. Four seasons in one day, she thought. Welcome to Suffolk.

Ruth had no sooner found her story flowing once more when she heard a knock on the door of the office, and Harry poked his head through the gap between door and door frame. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but can we talk?"

The rhythm of her writing was already broken, so she turned to indicate the chair he'd occupied the day before. He'd also come bearing gifts – a mug of coffee for them each, along with a plate of chocolate-covered digestives. "Mmm," she said, reaching out to take a biscuit from the plate, "what a dilemma. My least favourite biscuits covered with my most favourite condiment."

Harry stared at her, as only Harry could. "I'm not sure chocolate could be called a condiment, Ruth."

"I beg to differ. I think you'll find that a condiment is something which is used to enhance flavour, and since digestives have no discernible flavour, anything at all will serve as a condiment." Ruth had noticed Harry watching her closely as she spoke. "What is it?" she asked.

"I love it when you shoot me down with logic."

"And I love it when you set me up so that my default response will be that I shoot you down with logic."

"I set you up?"

"Of course. You do it often. I think you get something out of my logical comebacks and explanations."

"Your logic arouses me."

Ruth smiled, watching him, hoping he had more to offer as explanation, but his arousal at the hands of her logic seemed to be about all he had. "Is something wrong?"

Harry carefully placed his mug of coffee on the desk beside Ruth's laptop, and then he sat back in his chair and sighed. "That was Malcolm who called. He's been busy with his .. er, girlfriend this weekend, but he got up early this morning and did an investigation into Derek Mitchell. What he told me has me rather worried." He waited, watching for a reaction from Ruth.

"Is Malcolm worried?"

"It's difficult to tell with him. You know how he holds his cards close to his chest." She did. "I'll spare you the details of how he obtained this information. Most of his sources are private, so I never ask."

"His sources are almost always very reliable," Ruth said.

"I know. He has discovered that Derek Mitchell was born in Leeds to working class English parents – nothing remarkable there. In the early 1990's he joined the United Nations peacekeeping force and was sent to the Balkans, where he remained on and off for four years. Once he returned to the UK he was discharged, medically unfit, but there are records to show that he was implicated in war crimes, but the evidence against him was thin, and may well have been fabricated. He was not popular with his fellow soldiers. He was seen as a loner - not a team player. After a few months at home he returned to Croatia, where he has lived ever since. He married a Croatian girl – Kamila - and they have two children. That's his background. And yes, he's always been called Mitch. This is where the picture begins to blur, but Malcolm was able to determine that he has done some work on behalf of MI6, and a number of other government funded bodies who were in the Balkans after the end of the Balkan war. He has done random jobs, both short and long term, sometimes operating undercover for months at a time. He booked into the hotel in Great Yarmouth ten days after you arrived back in the UK."

"This is to do with _me_?" Ruth suddenly sat up, shocked and surprised. Seeing the sadness in Harry's eyes, and the worry tightening his mouth, she reached out a hand to him, which he captured in both his hands.

"There's nothing yet to connect the two of you, but it appears he may be here to keep an eye on you."

Suddenly Ruth took her hands from Harry's grasp and stood clumsily. "I have to go back to London," she said with determination. "I have to hide away somewhere. What was I thinking, imagining I could have a normal life?"

Harry had also stood, and was blocking her way, his hands by his side, but ready to grab her should she attempt to get past him. "You're safest here, Ruth. With me."

"But I'm putting you in danger. I can't -"

"You can, and I'm here .. to take care of you and protect you. This Mitchell fellow works for our side, Ruth."

"Since when have MI6 been on our side?"

"It's more likely his presence here has nothing to do with us."

All the fight went out of Ruth, and she took a step forwards and leaned heavily against Harry, who wrapped his arms around her and drew her against him. He bent down so that his cheek was against hers. "Malcolm hasn't all the information he needs yet. He only has the background on Derek Mitchell. He was planning to follow the money which is funding Mitchell's hotel stay. Graham's .. girlfriend -"

Ruth lifted her head quickly. "Graham has a girlfriend?"

"We-ell, perhaps not a girlfriend as such. I gather he's sleeping with her, which is not quite the same thing." Ruth nodded, and then lifted her arms to slide them around his neck so that her fingers were free to play with the ends of his hair. "Malcolm still has to follow the money trail – a job which he'll hire out to one of the bright young things he has working for him. He also wants to look at all the places you stayed while you were away, Ruth. I told him I'd get you to make a list, and then I'll email that through to him."

As he'd been speaking, Ruth's forehead had wrinkled with worry. "Why would he want those details?" she asked.

"I asked that same question, and all he said was that he was attempting to cover all bases. He doesn't expect to find anything, but he has to check all possibilities."

Ruth nodded, and then she reached up to place a soft kiss on Harry's lips. "Thank you," she said, "and I'm sorry I over-reacted. All I could see was a nighttime attack on this house, with a bunch of militia raiding the place and taking you away."

"Your imagination is working overtime, Ruth."

She sighed, pulling out of his embrace. "Speaking of my imagination, I really need to put in another couple of hours on my novel. When do you expect to hear back from Malcolm about .. the rest of it?"

"He said it may take him at least forty-eight hours from the time he gets the list of places you stayed."

"Right," she said, once against sitting at her laptop, "I'll do that first."

"You remember them all?"

"All except maybe a half dozen cheap hotels where I stayed for one night only, but that was very early in my time away. Mostly I stayed for at least a week or more in one place."

"Let me know when you have the list," Harry said, and then quickly left the room.

It took Ruth almost two hours to compile her list. She'd had to consult Google maps as she followed her course across Europe six and a half years earlier. It was when she checked the address of the house she'd lived in in Scoscesa, the mountain village in Italy, that she felt uneasy. She remembered how it had felt to her like they were waiting for her to arrive, although it had only been a few days before her arrival that she'd called ahead to inquire about work and a place to stay. It had been all too convenient, too easy, where her experiences in other parts of Italy showed her that the Italians were anything but organised, and often lived life day to day. When her list was complete she sent it through to Harry's computer, and sent him a text. That's ridiculously lazy, she thought, but she had writing to do, and was determined to not be distracted by Harry.

* * *

It was almost nine o'clock by the time they climbed into the bath together. "You're going to have to get a bigger bath," Ruth said, bending her knees to make room as Harry stretched out at the other end of the bath.

"You could sit against me," he suggested, almost certain she'd reject the idea as being a ploy he had to get his hands on her. He was relieved when she shuffled herself around until she sat facing the same way as Harry, leaning her back against him. He had nowhere to put his arms other than around her. "This is nice," he said, kissing the side of her head.

"I don't think we should start anything while we're in the bath, Harry."

"I wasn't about to. You know I'll be turning sixty this year."

"I notice you didn't play the age card this morning."

"That's because this morning I felt no older than forty."

Ruth leaned her head back until it rested on his shoulder. She wondered to herself why she had not allowed something like this to happen between them before she'd had to leave London .. but then, she already knew the answer to that question. They had not been equals at work, and it was at work that their relationship had formed and then grown. At that time they would always have been a boss and his subordinate; that is, Harry was in charge, and would no doubt have been in charge of the relationship.

Ruth had been lightly brushing her fingertips back and forth along Harry's thighs, which were either side of her, while she turned her thoughts to their activities of early that morning. After no more than a minute or two of her fingers caressing his thighs, Harry grasped her hands in his and removed them from his skin. "What's wrong?" she asked, surprised.

"That's a little too … enjoyable."

"I'm sorry."

"Please don't be sorry, Ruth. Your touch is .. electric."

She moved her hands to cover his, and waited another minute before speaking her thoughts. "I've been thinking ..." she began.

"Dangerous words," he whispered against her temple.

"This Mitchell person who hides in the dunes … if he turned up here just after I arrived in the UK, why was he staying in Yarmouth? Were he here to keep an eye on me, why not follow me to London?"

"You've been reading my mind," he said, his voice low as it rumbled against the side of her head.

"The only logical explanation, if this person's task is based on any kind of logical plan, is that whatever – or whoever – they are after .. or watching – if it involves me, it only involves me in relation to you."

"Or conversely," Harry countered, "if it involves me – which, given the timing and his vantage point in the dunes is highly likely – then it involves me in relation to you. I think we can safely say that Graham's prior drug connections have nothing to do with this."

"I agree. We also have to consider that if a mercenary, as this man is, has been sent here from Croatia, then he's not here for the scenery, and it's likely he's here to do more than simply observe us."

With her words, Ruth felt Harry's arms tighten around her. He was afraid. She was afraid. It was naïve to believe that together they could beat this threat to them, whatever it was. They were going to need more than just each other.


	11. Chapter 11

_It wasn't the unlocked back door to her cottage which raised Grace's anxiety. She regularly left her doors unlocked, even when on night shift at the factory, but she'd remembered locking it the previous evening. It was the pile of wet clothes - a man's clothes - on the kitchen floor which had led her to treading gently and noiselessly as she climbed the stairs._

 _As she'd hoped, it was Michael in her bed, and beneath the eiderdown he appeared naked. Well, she was exhausted, and there was only one bed in her cottage, and she hadn't the energy to climb back down the stairs to sleep on the sofa. She turned her back on his sleeping form while she removed her clothes, then donning a shapeless, ankle-length nightie. Very carefully she climbed under the covers, shuffling closer to Michael to capture some of his heat while he slept on._

* * *

North Suffolk - two days later:

Harry lifted his hands to raise the hood of his jacket over his head, and then forward to hide his face. He had just entered the narrow pathway through the dunes, and the breeze off the sea was razor sharp. As he'd woken just after dawn, an early morning walk along the shore had seemed like a reasonable answer to his lethargy. He had gazed at Ruth while she slept, willing her to wake. He could have woken her with a kiss, or even a touch of his skin on hers, but he needed to get his body moving, and he hadn't walked in days.

A quick glance told him there was no-one in the dunes. He hadn't expected there to be. It was only seven o'clock, and most sensible people were either still in bed, or enjoying breakfast. Harry had found it difficult to break the habits of his long working life. Early to rise, and then straight out the door to face whatever the day would bring. He would have preferred a cuddle under the duvet, but one hadn't been on offer.

He was still left breathless by the sudden and unexpected change in his life. He'd often fantasised about Ruth returning to the UK, and even then, he'd found it hard to believe she might still, after all the years they were apart, want to be with him. He usually had her returning with a husband or partner, perhaps accompanied by a young child. Such an outcome would have left him bereft, his lone future yawning ahead of him. For him it had only ever been Ruth.

As he headed north along the beach he kept his head down and his hands in his pockets. He smiled to himself as he remembered Ruth's last words to him before they fell asleep. `I never want to sleep alone again.' He'd said `good', and squeezed her hand. Those seven words, spoken by Ruth in a state of semi sleep, were as good as a commitment. He'd briefly thought of asking her to marry him then and there, but had hesitated, and soon the moment, like so many other moments, had passed him by. They had ample time in which to sort out a future together. She had not talked about returning to her flat in London, and nor had he raised the subject. She had free use of the small office at the back of the house, and they had each other. As he viewed it, Ruth had no reason at all for returning to London, apart from her car, which she'd left parked in the double garage at Malcolm's house.

He felt the approach of another person, and on lifting his head he saw the mystery man, approaching from less than twenty metres away. Where had he sprung from, and where did he park his car?

"Good morning," the man said, once they drew closer.

Harry nodded and then slowed. He needed to get a better look at Derek Mitchell, to assess the man. He kept walking, head lowered, and then once Mitchell's soft footsteps had faded, he turned to glance at the back of his head as he walked in the opposite direction. Harry watched him for a moment, and then continued his walk north. Nothing in Mitchell's rapid gait gave any clue about what he was doing on the beach at such an hour .. but then, Harry had not expected answers. He was a man of high curiosity, and he wanted answers. He suspected the answers were not about to come from the rather unremarkable man who had just passed him on the beach.

After around ten minutes, and without breaking his stride, Harry took his phone from the pocket of his jacket and called Ruth, who answered sleepily with an annoyed, "What?"

"Good morning. Did you miss me?"

"You rang me to ask me that?" The words, `are you insane?' remained unspoken.

"That, and other things. Are you up?"

"Just. I'm boiling the kettle. I need a coffee, and I need to spend today working. Thanks to you I'm well behind my schedule."

Harry ignored her accusation. "Can you do something to settle my anxiety?"

"You've gone looking for Mitchell, haven't you? Harry -"

"I'm walking along the beach, and I met him heading in the opposite direction."

"Did you exchange pleasantries?"

"Not exactly, but we did share a moment of eye contact. Ruth, could you check the doors and windows? Make sure the locks are secure." Harry heard her sigh heavily. He knew she wasn't fully awake, but this was important. "Now, please Ruth."

"Right. Consider it done," and then she hung up.

Harry smiled as he pocketed his phone. Bleary-eyed, annoyed and half-awake Ruth was something new for him. He'd never known her to be anything other than operating fully on all cylinders.

* * *

Ruth put her phone on the kitchen bench beside her, perhaps placing it with more force than necessary. Bloody Harry. Why couldn't he just .. live his life ... away from Thames House, away from the service, away from threats and danger and covert operations? In a sudden fit of adolescent rebellion Ruth decided she wasn't about to check the doors and windows. If Mitchell found his way in and slit her throat, then it would serve Harry right. She didn't know why, and nor was she about to question her motives, but for some reason ignoring Harry's orders made her feel rather good. She made herself a large mug of coffee and then sat at the kitchen table so that when she looked up she had a view of the garden.

Ruth was half way through her coffee when she recognised the true source of her dark mood. Firstly, Harry had acted like her section head and not her lover. She had hoped they were equals, but he'd rung her barking orders at her. Small wonder she had reacted as she had. The other tangle in her fishing net was that her second book was not going well. She had Grace thinking of Michael, and wondering should she contact him, but there was no motive nor avenue for Grace to be doing that. After all, only a few years earlier she had walked out of his life forever, leaving him free to live his life and mend his marriage. Why would she suddenly change her mind? Boredom and longing were not reason enough.

Once she had finished her coffee Ruth wandered over to the sink and stared out over the garden. The day outside was cold but fine, and the newly planted trees and shrubs would welcome the direct sunshine. Ruth took another sip of her coffee, willing her mood to lift, and her fuzzy head to clear. Graham was due to arrive in late morning, and he was bringing vegetable seedlings – lettuce, cucumbers, carrots, tomatoes – which she had promised to help him plant. She had best get dressed and put in a few hours of writing before he arrived.

* * *

Mitch had seen that guy before. He didn't know where, but his face was familiar. He'd already covered five kilometres along the beach, and he'd soon be at the headland where the rocks blocked his way. No amount of walking was working for him, but he believed it was still doing him good. His body would thank him one day. Forty two years old and in the space of a few weeks he'd lost everything. He was operating on anger and adrenaline alone, and he had no idea where his life was headed. So he walked. And walked. While he walked, he was headed somewhere.

Maybe one of these mornings he'd stop the old guy and have a chat. He was sure he should know him, but the man had one of those regular English faces – pleasant, familiar, the kind of face which could become lost in a crowd.

Until then he would keep walking.

* * *

Just after nine o'clock, while Harry ate breakfast alone, Malcolm rang to suggest that he drop in to see them.

"Drop in?" Harry asked. "We're not just around the corner."

"No, but we are. We spent the night with Dawn's brother and sister-in-law. They live just outside Thetford, so it's only an hour from here to the coast. If I get out of the house for a few hours it will give Dawn time with her brother and his family."

"My son will be here."

"Excellent. I haven't seen Graham since he was ..."

"A difficult teen. I think you only met him the once, and he called you a stuffed shirt."

Harry heard Malcolm's chuckle. "He also called me a boring fuckwit."

"He called everyone a boring fuckwit. Fortunately his vocabulary has improved."

"Meeting me again may cause him embarrassment."

"The humility will be good for him," Harry countered. "We'll look forward to seeing you."

Harry heard Malcolm's hesitation before he spoke. "Is .. Ruth with you?"

"Yes. She's still here. She talks of having to go back to London, but I'm trying to keep her here for as long as possible. She's spending the morning writing, so she'll be glad of the distraction."

"That's good. Very good. I should be at yours by eleven thirty."

When they ended the call Harry knocked gently on the office door. He hated interrupting her, but she'd want to be warned about Malcolm's visit. She looked up and smiled at him when he entered the room and sat in his usual chair. "I hope you don't mind," he said apologetically, "but Malcolm is paying us a quick visit. He should be here in around two hours."

Ruth sat back in her chair and stretched by pulling both arms back and linking her hands behind her. "It's a good thing I've already put in two hours, then."

"How's it progressing?"

Ruth swivelled her chair around and smiled at Harry. Since his panicked phone call to her just after she'd woken, he hadn't mentioned seeing Derek Mitchell on the beach, and she wasn't about to remind him. She had decided that she wasn't about to worry about Mitchell until she knew for sure that he was a threat. Until then he was nothing more than a lone man who liked the beach. "I'd been looking for the catalyst which will bring Grace and Michael together once more, and I believe I have it." She watched him closely, but didn't qualify her statement.

"Are you planning to tell me?"

"Not yet. I don't want to jinx my story. So far it's just an idea."

Harry nodded. "Would you like a cup of tea?" Ruth shook her head. "Coffee?" Again she shook her head. "A kiss maybe?"

Ruth smiled and leaned forward. "Mmm .. yes, please."

Harry leaned towards her and held her face between his hands while he kissed her, and for a few moments there were no visitors arriving, and no lone man on their beach. It was just the two of them in the house. "That was lovely," she said once he'd pulled out of the kiss. "Were Malcolm and Graham not arriving today I'd suggest we spend the afternoon in bed."

"Do you think they'd mind if we went to bed and left them to entertain themselves?"

Ruth laughed lightly. "I think they'd be offended, yes. Is Malcolm bringing Dawn? I'd quite like to meet her."

"Sadly no, and I still haven't met her. I'm beginning to wonder if she's real." Harry sat back in his chair and watched Ruth, his eyes never straying from her face. "What if she's a fabrication?"

"I saw a photograph of the two of them on his sideboard in the dining room."

"That could have been a cousin, or a neighbour."

"Harry .. when have you known Malcolm to lie?"

Harry looked away from Ruth and stared through the window. "You have a point there. I wonder why he's keeping her away from us."

"Perhaps he's worried she'll take one look at you and want to have your babies."

"Is suspect she's too old to be having anyone's babies."

As he spoke Ruth lifted her eyebrows at him. "You don't seem surprised by the prospect of Malcolm's partner taking an instant fancy to you."

"Why should I? You may have to up the ante, Ruth."

"Go, Harry. I need to write," she said, waving him away.

Harry got up from his chair, dropped a quick kiss on Ruth's cheek, and left the room. As much as Ruth enjoyed his company, his presence was distracting, and she needed to work on changes to her outline.

* * *

Once Harry left the office, Ruth managed another two hours at her laptop, most of which was spent on the outline to _Novel_2_. The story was beginning to excite her, and this was a very good sign. When she heard another knock on the door, she assumed it to be Harry, so she called out, "You can only come in if you're naked."

The door opened slightly and Graham stuck his head through the gap. "I'd rather keep my clothes on if that's all right with you."

Hearing his voice, Ruth rose from her chair and moved to greet him. "I'm so sorry," she said. "I should have checked who it was before I answered. You're early. Would you like a cup of something?" Her words spilled out of her in a rush, and Graham saw this for what it was – an attempt to hide her embarrassment.

He stepped towards her and took her hands in his. "I take it you and Dad are getting on well." His words had Ruth pulling her hands from his and turning back towards the desk. "Sorry. I did it again. For what it's worth, I'm glad. I think you're good for him. With you in his life he'll not be ready for the aged care home for a while."

Ruth quickly turned to him, a kernel of outrage sitting at the back of her throat. "Your father is a very long way from being a candidate for one of those places, and while I'm with him I'll not be sending him away, regardless of his condition. Although," she added, her eyes twinkling, "were there homes for the incredibly stubborn and unnaturally paranoid, he'd certainly qualify."

Graham smiled into her eyes before he looked through the window at the garden, deciding to begin again. "I brought a box of vegetable seedlings. I thought I might plant them out straight away. Rain is being forecast for later today."

Ruth nodded. "I think Harry's planning to help you."

"Yeah, he is. He's changing into his gardening clothes."

"If you need me .."

"Ruth, it's all right," he said, reaching out with his hand to indicate she should stay where she was. "I can see you're working. I'll .. get on, then." And he quickly left the room, his head down.

Ruth really liked Graham, even though he had a knack for saying the wrong thing. For a few minutes she watched through the window while Graham carried shallow boxes of seedlings to the back of the garden. Then Harry joined him, dressed in faded corduroy trousers and a jumper with holes in the elbows, and father and son began discussing which seedlings were to go where in the raised garden along the back fence. As much as she'd have liked to watch them for the remainder of the morning, she couldn't. Ruth dropped her eyes to her laptop, blocking out the scene in the garden.

* * *

It was less than a half hour later that Ruth heard another light tapping on the office door. Waterloo Station had nothing on her small office. She turned to see Malcolm standing there, a smile on his face. "Malcolm! I didn't hear you arrive."

"Dawn calls me the ghost who walks. She says I creep around, scaring people."

"I think it might be time for a cuppa."

"Good," he said, stepping aside to wait for Ruth to join him. "I wanted to speak to you before Harry and Graham come inside. I heard voices at the back of the house, and when I got there Harry let me in." He fell silent as they headed to the kitchen, and Ruth made a pot of tea, and then carefully set it on the table he continued. "I thought you should see this first," he said, waking up his electronic tablet. "I trust your judgement. Harry can tend to .."

"Overreact?"

"He's very protective of you, Ruth. He's already lost you once. I don't think he'd manage at all well were he to lose you a second time."

"So it's bad news."

"On the contrary. I think that Harry having worked in security for much of his life has led to him seeing the worst in people."

"But you have worked in security for almost as long, and you're not like that."

"My life has been more balanced than Harry's. He learned to view everything around him through the prism of a spy."

"I know," Ruth said, touching the pads of her fingers to the side of the teapot. "It's one of the areas where we have always differed."

Malcolm returned his attention to his tablet. "I have a photograph of Derek Mitchell, sent to me by Graham. Would you like to see the man we've been talking about?" When Ruth nodded, Malcolm turned the tablet and pushed it across the table to Ruth. He noticed the change in her expression – from curiosity to recognition. "You know this man, Ruth."

"Yes. I do."

"You've seen him on the beach?"

"No. I haven't seen him since I've been back in England." She looked up at Malcolm, her expression one of confusion. "I met him when I was living in a mountain village in Italy. I knew him as Marios. Marios Corbo."


	12. Chapter 12

**_A/N : Thanks to readers and reviewers of this fic. And as always, I'm just hoping the plot makes sense to someone other than me! _**

* * *

_"You shouldn't be here," he said, sitting up in bed while Grace tied her dressing gown and pulled on her slippers. She kept her eyes away from his naked chest, although more than anything she wanted to take a peek._

 _"Why not? I live here. It's you who shouldn't be here."_

 _"I had to go somewhere they wouldn't find me."_

 _"It's that mysterious `they' again, isn't it?"_

 _"This time it's a different `they'. My `they' are easy to deal with compared with this lot."_

 _"Who are this `they'?"_

 _He slowly shook his head. "It's best you don't know."_

* * *

Ruth's eyes returned to the image on the tablet in front of her. "Marios told me he'd been born in England to Italian parents who had emigrated from Scorscesa. He was returning to get in touch with his roots."

"Given the work he's been doing, that identity was just another of his legends."

"You .. didn't trace him to Scorscesa at the time I was there?"

"No," Malcolm said quietly. "I confess that I gave up the chase through Europe when I discovered this," he said, reaching his hand out for the tablet, and then scrolled through several pages until he reached the one he wanted. He then handed the tablet back to Ruth, who read the article from _The Yorkshire Evening Post_ online from four and a half months earlier. Malcolm closely watched her face while realisation dawned on her.

"Alan and Raylene Mitchell were his parents?"

"Yes. They died together when their house caught fire during the night. The investigation into the fire was inconclusive, although an electrical fault was suspected."

"So he was an only child."

"Not exactly. He had an older brother who drowned when Derek was sixteen. It was a boating accident in which it seems copious amounts of alcohol were involved." Ruth shook her head, barely believing this man's bad luck. "There's more," Malcolm added. "At the time his parents were killed Derek's wife had just left him, taking their two children. According to the memos I read, she claimed he was abusive, and so she's gone into hiding."

Malcolm waited while Ruth digested the information. "He could still be working," she said. "He'd need something to occupy him. He could still be keeping an eye on one of us."

"I also found a document releasing him from his employment for an indefinite period of time. MI-6 consider him unfit to work."

"Unfit to work? Most MI-6 agents are unfit to work. They work month after month, year after year without a break, and they experience and witness horrors the likes of which would paralyse the rest of us. How can they say he's unfit to work?"

"I suspect they were getting rid of him, perhaps temporarily, perhaps not. From what I read he's a specialist. He deals with the families of people in power - barons and princes and Sheiks. He befriends them, and then holds them hostage. He's been put in positions of trust with these families – usually as a chauffeur or a children's bodyguard. Apparently he's rather good with children."

"And now he's lost his own."

Malcolm hesitated, lightly drumming his fingers on the table top while Ruth poured them each a cup of tea. They then each added milk and sugar. "I also think that his wife's accusations against him are false."

"Why would she lie?"

"If she's wanting to begin again with another man, she'd have motivation for lying, _and_ for going into hiding."

"The poor man," Ruth said before sipping her tea.

They each allowed the silence between them. Malcolm could almost see the wheels turning in Ruth's mind. "Is there something you want to say, Ruth?"

She looked up in surprise, as if she had forgotten he was there. "There is, but I'd like to wait until Harry joins us, and perhaps Graham needs to be busy doing something else. He has no need to hear most of this. It doesn't concern him."

"He was very helpful at gathering information on Derek Mitchell. He would have made a useful spy."

"Don't tell Harry, and don't tell Graham. I have a feeling Graham enjoyed his short stint at espionage."

"I'm not meaning to tread on anyone's toes, but I'd like to keep Graham in the loop, Ruth."

For the time it took for the two of them to finish the pot of tea, Ruth thought about Malcolm's request for Graham to be included in their discussion about Mitchell with Harry. In the end she agreed.

* * *

Over a lunch of locally produced grain bread, cheese, tomatoes, olives and cold pork and apple sausages, Malcolm brought Harry and Graham up to speed, and then got up to make a pot of coffee while Ruth shared with the three men her theory about Derek Mitchell. Even Malcolm had no idea what was on her mind, but he trusted her powers of observation and analysis, and he expected she had a broader view of Mitchell's recent life.

"Do you know what he was doing in that village in Italy, Ruth?" Graham asked. Harry had been uncharacteristically reticent, and this worried Malcolm, who was waiting for the older man to explode.

"He was only there for maybe ... five or six months, and I met him only three times. On the .. third occasion we shared lunch and a coffee in the village square. We talked about nothing much - the villagers, mainly - but he wanted to know about the family who lived in the house where he stayed. He was staying in a home where the family had gone away for a few months. As I recall he asked me very little about myself and what I was doing there. He did odd jobs around the village – gardening, painting, simple carpentry jobs. What he was really doing there I can't begin to imagine. He seemed very friendly, but he also kept to himself."

"So you two think he's just spending his time here while he allows himself to grieve." This from Harry, who still gave nothing away.

"Possibly," Ruth replied. She stirred sugar into her second cup of coffee, and then took a breath. "I think we need to entertain the possibility that the intelligence services in either Croatia or even here may be the ones behind both his wife's disappearance, and his parents' death, and that he is currently taking bereavement leave in .. familiar surroundings. Malcolm has suggested that his family may have spent holidays near here .. when he was a child."

The silence in the room was heavy and pervasive while each of the three men contemplated Ruth's words. "You're sure about this?" Harry asked at last.

"Of course I'm not sure," Ruth replied. "I think we have to accept that what has happened to this man was not an accident, and that someone – or perhaps a group of people – in Croatia want him out of the way."

"Surely that's not our problem," Graham said.

"No, it's not," Malcolm added, sipping his coffee, and then carefully placing his mug on the coaster provided. "My view is that we need to be absolutely certain that Mitchell's life circumstances have not been brought about by any intelligence service, and that he is in our midst by choice rather than by the rather dark machinations of any security service of any country. He may still be on a mission. We have to .. find out for sure."

There was a long silence as each of the four people around the table took in Malcolm's words. Ruth was the first to speak. "As the only one here who has met this man, I think I should seek him out and speak to him." As she finished speaking Ruth lifted her eyes to Harry's. She saw the tension in his body, and held his gaze, her jaw set. Without saying a word she had conveyed to him her meaning – he was not to interfere with her decision.

"At least let me come with you," he said quietly. It was as though the other two men were not there.

Ruth took her time answering. "We need to discuss this in private, Harry."

"Maybe I can meet him," Graham suggested cheerily.

" _No!_ " Harry and Ruth said together.

"I happen to know that most days Mitchell has an early lunch at the little coffee house two doors from the hotel. Maddie says you could set your watch by it. Eleven-thirty on the dot."

"How come Maddie knows so much about this man?" Harry asked his son, attempting, but not succeeding in hiding his irritation.

"Since I first mentioned him she has become a trifle … obsessed. I think she's a bit bored. She's far too smart for her job, and she keeps looking for .. distractions."

"I think Ruth is right," Harry said. Ruth and Malcolm both noticed that he was using the same voice he'd used when running a meeting on the Grid. Malcolm found this amusing, while Ruth was more than a little irritated.

* * *

Malcolm left just before four o'clock, and nothing more was said about Derek Mitchell until dinner time, when Harry raised his eyes to Graham and asked him whether it was true that Mitchell visited the coffee shop each day at the same time.

"Maddie might be a lot of things, but she's no liar."

"What does that mean?" Ruth and Graham both noted the irritation in Harry's voice.

"It means that she'll bend the rules – like she did when she photographed some pages from Mitch's diary."

"It's a diary? I thought you said it was a note book."

"She left the pages on a table in the pub, and this guy from the oil rigs picked them up and went after her to give them to her. Then when he looked at the pages he said they were written in Croatian, and then he began speaking to her in Croatian, thinking that she'd been the one to write them." Graham looked from Harry to Ruth and back again. "What?"

"You don't honestly believe that story, do you?" Harry had lifted one eyebrow, and his mouth was curved in a half smile.

"What do you mean?"

Harry looked across the table to where Ruth was looking down, moving her food around on the plate with a fork. "What she really meant was that she met a man off the oil rigs, liked the look of him, invited him back to her room, and when she discovered he was from the Balkans, she showed him a page she'd photographed from Mitch's diary, and he translated it for her."

Graham's face had become dark, and he twisted his mouth in a sulky expression. "How do you know that?" he asked.

"It's the only logical explanation for her managing to get it translated, which I'm assuming is the next thing you were about to tell us."

Graham nodded. "So, she lied to me."

"Looks like it, but I thought you said she wasn't a serious girlfriend."

"She's not."

"So, what did Mitch write in this diary?"

"It was just stuff about missing his wife and kids and his parents."

"Is that all?"

"No," Graham said, furrowing his brow. "He also said he was scared of being found."

"By whom?"

"He didn't say." When Harry nodded, Graham continued. "Are you two going to meet him?"

Harry looked at Ruth. "We have to discuss that later."

Graham felt dismissed, and his disappointment at being left out of their discussion hurt him more than he was comfortable even admitting to himself.

* * *

By the time Ruth entered the bedroom after her shower Harry was sitting up in bed, reading glasses on, a map spread across his knees. Very quietly Ruth paused to hang her dressing gown over the hook on the back of the door, and turned to watch Harry, his eyebrows drawn together, his lips pursed in concentration as he pored over the map. She could barely believe she was in Harry's bedroom, and about to climb into bed with him. She was finding that Harry was not an easy man to be with, but nor was she the easiest of people to be with. Perhaps they had chosen one another in part because of their combined difficulty. Over the years they had both collected a bevy of experiences, many of them traumatic and life-changing. Harry was afraid for her just as she was afraid for him. It went with the territory.

As she climbed under the duvet and shuffled across the mattress to get closer to him, Harry looked up from the map he was perusing. She'd only very seldom seen him wearing reading glasses. Mostly he preferred to read while squinting, rather than to resort to artificial reading assistance. Whether that was as a result of laziness or male pride she couldn't determine, and she wasn't about to draw his attention to her suspicions. "That map is holding your attention."

Harry folded the map and placed it on his bedside table, and then he removed his glasses, carefully placing them on top of the map. When he turned back to her his expression was serious. "I was trying to determine where Mitchell may be leaving his car. There's a small car park near an inlet around four or so kilometres from here. I suspect he drives there and then walks in this direction, and when he's walked far enough he heads back to his car."

"Why would he do that?"

"To kill time. To get fresh air into his lungs. To exercise his body. To not have to think about the events of the past few months."

"Or all of the above."

"I'd say so."

Harry looked directly into Ruth's eyes. It was clear to her that his mind was on something else altogether. "I need to meet Derek Mitchell alone, Harry." When his lips formed a hard line she continued. "Were you there he may be confronted, even intimidated by your presence."

"Intimidating? Me?"

"Yes, you. You know very well how intimidating you can be."

"To everyone other than you, it seems." His voice was soft, his tone not altogether serious.

Ruth couldn't hold back her smile. Yes, he could be intimidating, even ferocious, but to her he had always been Harry, a decent man with a conscience, and that made him gentle, and perhaps for her alone, even malleable. "I'll ask Graham for the use of his car. I don't wish to be swanning around Great Yarmouth in a Lexus."

"What's wrong with my Lexus?"

"Nothing at all, but to Mitchell I'm a vagabond, a traveller. I don't wish to appear to him to be part of the establishment."

Harry sat back against his pillow and folded his hands across his stomach. First she'd called him intimidating, and then she'd accused him of being part of `the establishment'. He'd do well were he to keep quiet. He turned to look at her, and again she was smiling at him. He desperately wanted to kiss her, but he was at the moment just a little afraid of her.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I suppose you won't agree to me sitting in the café, but at another table."

"No, Harry, I won't. Mitchell has already seen you, so your presence will appear suspicious. You have to trust that I know what I'm doing."

They sat in silence for a few more minutes while they both stared at the wall opposite, he hoping that she would beg him to come with her, and she hoping he had at last got the message.

"Very well," he said at last, "but I need you to know that I'll be panicking the whole time."

Ruth smiled widely before reaching across to place a soft kiss on his lips. "I know you will. It won't hurt for you to not be in control just this once." Ruth pulled away from him and leaned back against the headboard.

"Is that all?" he asked. "Just the one kiss?"

"You want more?"

"I'll always want more, Ruth."

Then, with her eyes holding his, Ruth began to unbutton her pyjama top. Very slowly she pulled her arms from the sleeves, and then threw the garment onto the floor. "This kind of more?"

He nodded, smiling. "That will do very nicely … for a start," he added before reaching across to gather her to him, his free hand seeking the soft skin of the underside of her breast.


	13. Chapter 13

_In the three weeks before I saw you again I imagined the very worst. Perhaps your body would be found, twisted, bruised and mangled, on a beach somewhere; perhaps you were parachuting over the German countryside (and could you even operate a parachute?); perhaps you were meeting shadowy people in a dark, Parisian alleyway; perhaps you had decided to spend more time with Thora. I even considered cycling to the village phone box and putting in a call to Thora, but I hadn't your number, so like so many other women in Britain in 1944, I waited._

* * *

The next day – 10.52 am:

"You need to calm down, Dad."

"I _am_ calm."

"You're wound up like a spring. Come and sit down. I've made us a pot of tea."

"Tea? You sound like Ruth. How will bloody tea calm me?"

Graham noticed Harry's surly expression, one which was familiar to him. "For a start, drinking it will force you to sit down, and concentrate on something other than all the terrible things which might happen to Ruth."

Harry turned from the doorway to the garden and approached a spare chair at the table, placing his hand on the back of the chair. "What I need is something stronger than tea."

"Trust me when I say you don't."

"Since when did you have all the answers?"

"Since I stopped using drugs and alcohol as a crutch."

"As happy as I am that you have achieved sobriety, I don't need you preaching to me."

Graham grinned and then looked away from his father as he poured a cup of tea for Harry. "I didn't put out any biscuits because there are only broken ones left." Harry sat on the chair, lifted his eyebrows, and then accepted the cup his son pushed across the table for him. "Besides, there's something I need to discuss with you."

"So now you're about to provide a distraction."

"That's only part of my plan." Graham sipped his tea before placing the cup on the place mat in front of him. He folded his hands and then looked up, his eyes seeking Harry's. "Ruth happened to tell me that her birthday was a couple of weeks ago."

"Why would she tell you that?"

"You do know when her birthday is, don't you?"

"Of course I do. It's at the end of April."

"Which date?"

"One of them."

Graham smiled and then scratched his chin with his fingernails. "So you forgot it, right?"

"Not forgot exactly." Harry looked away, discomfort clear in his body language. He had spoken to her by phone on her birthday, and when he'd asked her what she wanted as a gift, she'd said, 'I already have my gift, Harry. Seeing you again has been more than enough.'

"Overlooked?"

"Kind of. I have no idea what to give her."

"But I do. I know what she'd like, but first we have to get rid of her."

"What?"

"Not get rid of her exactly. What I mean is she has to go back to London for a week or two."

"Why a week or two?"

"I have this idea which I think Ruth will like."

* * *

In a narrow coffee house in Great Yarmouth, Ruth sat at a table for two which faced the doorway from the street. Were Derek Mitchell to enter from the street, the first face he'd see would be hers. She'd been sitting over her latte for fifteen minutes. It was 11.26 am.

At the exact same moment that Derek Mitchell entered the café, Ruth was distracted by a metallic crash from the kitchen. She turned to ensure that the noise was from the kitchen, and had not been caused by something more sinister. When she turned back to the doorway her view was blocked by a man standing in front of her. She lifted her gaze to the startling blue eyes of Derek Mitchell.

"I thought it was you," he said, smiling. "Small world."

Even though she'd been expecting him, and had been planning a mild form of entrapment, when he spoke to her, his accent more Leeds than Zagreb, her face showed shock and surprise. She opened her mouth, about to use his proper name, when she remembered the name by which she'd known him. "Marios?" she said.

"Not any more," he said with a wry smile. He indicated the other chair at Ruth's table by pointing at it, and dipping his head to one side. "Are you expecting anyone?" Ruth shook her head. "Do you mind if I join you?" he added.

Ruth pointed to the chair and smiled. "If you like."

Derek sat down, the ghost of a smile on his lips. Despite his cheery disposition, Ruth could see the sadness in his eyes. No amount of smiling and posturing could hide that. "What brings you to Great Yarmouth?" he asked.

Ruth hesitated for only a moment. She had already decided to stick to the truth. If she wanted him to tell all, then she must lead by example. "I'd been in .. exile for over six years, and have only recently returned to the UK. I'm currently visiting my partner who lives locally."

"So ..." Derek said, leaning forward and lowering his voice, "you're a spy?"

"I was once. I am no longer. I'm now a writer."

Derek nodded slightly, a trifle absently, then shifted in his seat and looked towards the counter. "I should .. order."

Ruth nodded, and waited while he went to the counter to place his order. The minute or so of respite gave her a moment to regroup, and to assess their interaction so far. Her instincts told her that honesty would serve her well, and that Derek Mitchell was looking for someone to listen to his own story. It appeared to Ruth that she was about to become that someone. She quickly looked around her. Only three other tables were occupied, all with unfamiliar faces, and all appeared disinterested in her and her companion. So far, so good.

* * *

"Why hasn't she rung?"

"Careful with that spade, Dad."

Harry stood upright and glared at his son. It was Graham who had suggested they spend some time outside. The weather was cool, calm and overcast, and so Graham's suggestion had been that they take a walk along the beach, but Harry had objected, stating a need to be close to home in case Ruth needed him. So Graham had them in the back garden digging holes. Ruth had suggested the garden could do with a few more low-growing shrubs to fill in the spaces between the small trees and larger shrubs. So far, the digging seemed to be exacerbating Harry's anxiety. He spent another five minutes angrily sinking the spade into the moist soil, and then threw the implement onto the ground beside him.

"Where are you going?" Graham called after him as he headed inside the house, toeing off his boots just outside the doorway. Harry ignored the question, chiefly because he had little idea himself. He stood before the fridge, one hand on the door handle, wondering why he had felt the need to storm off like a child. He dropped his hand and took a deep breath before pulling a chair from the table, where he sat, resting his head in his hands. He was so much like Graham, and his son so much like him. Why hadn't he seen it earlier? His heavy drinking after his mother had died, which had only escalated over time was not a lot different to Graham's self-defeating drug habit. Pour the substance into your body and lose yourself inside the brief oblivion it brought.

Harry sat up and leaned back in his chair to see that Graham had quietly taken a seat opposite him. "Would you like a drink?" Graham's expression was serious. No hint of irony there. "She'll be fine, Dad. Ruth's smart. If things get tricky she'll know what to do. Besides, it's only twelve-twenty."

"So now you're the talking clock."

Biting back an angry retort, Graham got up and began making coffee for them both. Harry ignored him. What was wrong with him? One independent move by Ruth, and he was thrown back to the time after Ruth had left London almost seven years ago. He knew she'd be fine. He had no doubt that her covert abilities had been sharpened by her having to slide and weave her way through the world alone. She had escaped danger then, so why not now? She was meeting this man in a coffee shop, a place where normal people gathered. There were no hidden dangers.

"Here," Graham said, pushing a mug of coffee, milk and sugar already added, towards his father. "You need to talk to me, Dad," he added, again sitting in the chair opposite Harry, holding his own mug of coffee between his palms. "I have no idea what it is you're going through, and so I'm having difficulty … understanding. You need to open up."

This time it was Harry who had to swallow his own words. He'd been told before that he held in his words, and his emotions. His father had told him. Jane had told him. Numerous women who had passed through his life had all said the same thing: `You're a lovely man, Harry, but I can't read your mind. You need to open up.' It was just that were he to do so he was afraid his whole sorry life, like verbal vomit, would pour out of him.

"You can tell me stuff and I won't pass it on .. to anyone," Graham continued. "You only drink because you refuse to talk to people. Believe me, talking helps."

Harry sighed heavily, and then lifted his eyes to the face which so resembled his own. "I don't think I can," he said at last.

Graham felt a moment of exasperation, but he allowed it to pass. Butting heads with his father never worked. "Dad ... one of these days you'll die, and I don't want that to happen without having gotten to know you, and I can't do that while you hide behind that wall of silence. I don't know how Ruth puts up with it."

"I don't do it with her, or .. not as much. She won't allow it."

"And nor will I."

Graham was his son, carved from his own flesh. He could talk to him ... couldn't he? "I'm not used to this kind of thing," he said carefully.

"I know, which is why I'm suggesting you try it."

"How?"

"Just think of me as some random bloke you've met in a bar," Graham said, clearly able to read Harry's thoughts.

Harry sighed, and then uttered the first words which came into his head. "I don't want to lose her again," he blurted out, suddenly relieved to have been given the opportunity to air his fears. "Every moment she'd not with me I'm terrified that the last time I saw her would be my last glimpse of her .. ever." Graham nodded and then sipped his coffee. "I don't know why, but .. that's how I always feel when she does .. something like this."

"Something like what?"

Harry sighed heavily, running the pads of his fingers up and down the side of the coffee mug. "Something dangerous."

"She's meeting a man she already knows in a coffee shop in Yarmouth. How dangerous can that be?"

Of course, Graham was right. It was only _potentially_ dangerous, and then only very mildly. So perhaps … "Is it me who is making this more serious than it is?"

Graham shrugged, a habit which Harry didn't appreciate at all. He would never shrug. He only ever stood very still and stared; he found that it had the same effect as any number of careless gestures. "So the question has to be asked .. why do you panic whenever you think Ruth might be in danger, because that _is_ what this is about, isn't it?" Harry hated it when Graham was right. He'd been right about so many things – the house in the country; the back garden; Ruth. Harry conceded defeat with a nod. "I think you might need to tell me what happened seven years ago. What was it happened then, because what is happening today is not the same thing at all."

So Harry sat back, stared through the window over the sink at the line of beech trees behind the back wall of the garden, and he told his son what he'd not been able to share with anyone until now.

* * *

Forty kilometres away Ruth and Derek had already shared synopses of their own stories, although Ruth had skipped over some of the details. She had not mentioned Harry's name, and nor had she told him her real name. He believed her name to be Louise Calder, and she still didn't know why Derek had been let go by MI-6. "Surely you must have work to return to in Croatia – when you're feeling .. stronger."

Derek watched her carefully before he spoke, and Ruth had a horrible feeling that perhaps he suspected her of being more than an ex-spy. Derek was not an especially good-looking man. He had a plain face – rounded and a little pudgy – but she found his very blue eyes to be hypnotic, so that she could not look away. "I can't go back there," he said. "It's not safe for me there. They have my wife and children, and they will keep them as .. bait .. to draw me back." Ruth's expression must have changed, because Derek smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile. "The world is not a pleasant place, Louise. The people who have my family will kill me were I to return."

"Why didn't they kill you before you left?"

"My parents' untimely death had me returning to Britain unexpectedly. I suspect I'll be killed even if I remain here indefinitely."

Ruth felt mildly uncomfortable with the turn in the conversation. Why would this man share such information with a person who was almost a stranger? Well, why not? He had no-one else in whom to confide. Ruth couldn't help the feeling that this man was preparing to die. He was sharing his strange story with her because he needed to be telling someone. She was bearing witness to his life story.

It was when he began to talk in a monotone, sharing a rambling story about an operation he had witnessed from afar back in the autumn of 2011 that Ruth began to listen more closely. He mentioned an MI-5 section head and the Russian Foreign Minister – and the Minister's wife, named Elena.

"Do you remember the MI-5 officer's name?" she asked, feigning disinterest. "It's just that I did some work with MI-5 .. a long time ago now. Perhaps I know them."

"I can't remember the man's name, but I believe I've seen him .. only a few days ago."

Ruth's heart began thumping in her chest. "Here? In Great Yarmouth?"

"No. I saw him walking along the beach, south of here. I thought he looked familiar, but I couldn't place him. He was .. older .. over fifty, maybe sixty. I imagine he'd be retired by now."

Ruth knew that to pursue the subject of Harry would be risky, so she drew Derek back to the operation and his part in it. She knew how to get people to talk without raising their suspicions.

"You said you witnessed this operation. You were not directly involved?"

"No. I came to the UK, but as a citizen of Croatia. I was accompanied by Toma Pavlović, who is VSOA – the Croatian equivalent of MI-6 or the CIA. I was here as liaison between MI-5 and Pavlović, but I never got near anyone in MI-5. When we reached London it was clear Toma had something else planned. His agenda, rather than monitoring the talks between the UK and Russia, was to ensure they never took place."

"Why would a Croatian agent want the talks to not take place?"

"Because he's a double agent. He serves two masters – one in Croatia and the other in Russia."

"Marios," Ruth said carefully, "why are you telling me this? What purpose can it serve?"

"I know you sought me out. I know your name cannot be Louise, but I don't know what it is, and I don't need to know. I also don't know why you wanted to speak to me, but that hardly matters. Now I've told you about Pavlović, I don't expect to live very long."

Ruth knew she had to deflect Mitch's attention away from her, so she spoke fast. "How can he possibly know what you've told me?"

"There's a girl. She works for the hotel where I'm staying. It's just a few doors from here. She doesn't know that I know who she is. Nineteen months ago, when Toma and I were in London, he met her and .. took her to dinner, bought her drinks, groomed her. Her name is Madeleine. I know she cleans my room, and I know she's been going through my things. I've no doubt she has an idea of what I'm doing here."

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm waiting for Toma. He left Croatia a week ago, bound for London. I suspect he wants to kill me, but my plan is to kill him first."

"Why would he wish to kill you? None of this makes sense."

Derek dropped his head so that Ruth noticed the bald spot on the crown of his head, where his dark hair was sparse. Suddenly he looked up, and Ruth noticed how weary he appeared. "There _is_ a reason Toma is looking for me." Suddenly Mitchell rose to his feet, his eyes wild, and he turned towards the door. "Not here, though. I can't talk to you here. Where's your car?"

Ruth heard warning bells, and they were ringing loud and clear. She stayed where she was. "I'm not going anywhere," she said. "I .. you're safer here than anywhere outside this room. No-one can see us, and no-one can overhear our conversation. I'm only listening to this because I thought you might need to … tell _someone_ before .."

"Before?"

"Before this double agent finds you. I still have contacts in the intelligence service. You'll need someone to tell your story .. the truth, that is. Who is it has your wife and children?"

Very slowly Mitchell sat down, and ran his fingers through his hair. When again he looked up at Ruth, his eyes conveyed deep grief. "They're staying in a villa in the mountains. I believe my wife was having an affair with Pavlović. Perhaps she still is. He's .. slime. He wants me dead on several counts. My wife is very beautiful. I thought we had the … perfect marriage, but apparently not so. He wants her, and he wants me out of the way, but the real reason he wants me gone is that I know what he did to sabotage the Russian talks in London back in 2011."

Ruth breathed slowly, waiting, taking in his words, filing them away. "Which was?"

"Toma knows people. He knows what to do to press their buttons. I discovered that he .. planted evidence – false evidence – which intimated that Foreign Minister Gavrik's son was really the son of the MI-5 section head I told you about. He ensured the son found out, and then the husband of the woman. The rest was up to Gavrik's reaction to this evidence."

"Which was?"

"He killed his wife, and then he killed his son. The tragedy was that the son _was_ his son, and not the son of the British agent."

Ruth sat back in her chair, her jaw set hard. Harry hadn't shared any of this with her.

* * *

Graham and Harry had exhausted the subject of what Harry could give Ruth as a (belated) birthday gift. They had at last agreed that what Graham had suggested was rather a good idea, and that yes, Ruth needed to be out of the house for a minimum of two weeks. "You could take her back to London and stay with her there."

"Under what pretext?"

"That you have to check on your house. Maybe see the estate agent."

"I'll see what Ruth thinks about that. She might smell a plot."

"I expect she will," Graham said, putting his feet up on the coffee table, so that Harry growled at him like he was fifteen years old. "I just need to know one other thing," Graham said, reluctantly moving his feet while he scraped the bottom of the china bowl for the dregs of the ice cream. They had eaten a slap up lunch in the living room, the TV turned to a cricket match which Harry had wanted to watch. "Ridiculous game, cricket," Graham said. "I don't see the point of it."

"Is that the one other thing you needed to know?"

"No, of course not," Graham replied, sitting up straight, and putting his empty bowl and spoon on the coffee table. "I was wondering why you feel the need to protect Ruth."

Harry waited so long to answer that Graham wondered had he hit a nerve. Were that the case there was no way his father would give him a straight answer. He would most likely answer with another question. Bloody spies. "I would have thought that to be obvious," Harry replied. "It's because she needs protecting."

"But she managed quite well for almost seven years without your protection. How do you explain that?" Graham waited while Harry absorbed those words. "Of all the women I've known, Ruth is the one least in need of protection."

Harry was prevented from replying by the ringing of his mobile phone. It was almost one-thirty, so he really hoped it would be Ruth. It was. "Ruth? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, but I really need to speak to Graham."

Reluctantly, Harry handed the phone to Graham. "Ruth? What is it?"

"You need to take what I'm about to say very seriously. Firstly, you must not see the girl Maddie again."

"Why not?"

"Just listen and do as I say." Graham blanched at her tone. For someone who had never been a parent, Ruth was doing a rather accurate impression of one. "Do not see this girl again. She's .. not on our side. That is all you need to know for now. And the other thing is that until further notice you need to stay with Harry in his house."

"Is it safe for me to work?"

"You can do that, yes, but it's best that at other times you are out of Great Yarmouth. That is all I have to tell you. Put Harry back on."

Graham handed the phone back to his father. "Ruth .. are you all right?"

"I'm fine, but I have quite a story to tell you. I'm already half way home. I can't wait to see you."

"And I you, Ruth."


	14. Chapter 14

**_A/N : This chapter takes a brief detour into M territory._**

* * *

 _"Grace!" She heard her name spoken hoarsely from deep within the darkness ahead of her._

 _"It's bloody cold out here," she said, annoyed with him all over again. First he disappeared, and then three weeks later he'd turned up at church in the village with Thora, only to disappear again. Now he's meeting her in the woods at midnight. Grace felt ridiculous. "I'm freezing," she announced in her normal voice._

 _She heard a shuffling through the leaves, and suddenly he was standing over her, a towering figure in the darkness. "You have to be quiet," Michael whispered._

 _"Why?"_

 _"Because if you don't we could both die."_

 _Oh, what rot, she thought, but decided to play along. Men! Did any of them ever grow up? She swore the rest of the world had to endure the hardship, the shortages, the grief that wars bestowed so the men could play silly boys' games.  
_

* * *

Harry's Suffolk house - later that same evening:

"That's some story," Graham said, once Ruth had reached the end of her telling of her meeting with Derek Mitchell. "Were you scared?" Harry had frowned at his son's question.

When first she'd arrived home she had refused to talk about it, demanding that Harry accompany her for a walk along the beach. Harry had surmised she wished to speak about it with him, away from Graham's hearing, but she had just needed to stretch her legs, and to feel normal again. As they'd stepped onto the hard sand, dodging the large stones worn skin-smooth from centuries of tidal flow, Ruth had grasped his hand and not let go. Harry could tell from how tightly her fingers wrapped around his own that her visit with Derek Mitchell had disturbed her. They talked about nothing and everything, skirting around the subject of Ruth's early afternoon visit to Yarmouth. Two hours passed while they walked along the beach and then home, this time Graham having rung Harry to ensure they had not been kidnapped, or worse, murdered.

"I was never truly afraid of Mitchell," Ruth said. "While he knew I had sought him out, he didn't seem interested in my reasons for having done so. I also now have an inkling that it's possible he was in Scorcesa to keep an eye on me. He believes he has no reason to live, so to do me harm would be pointless. I believe he is very afraid of Pavlović, and perhaps even the girl, Maddie. In the end, he needed me to listen to his story. He sounded to me like a man who had reached the end of his tether, and who needed a sympathetic ear."

Harry had said very little while Ruth had recounted her meeting with Mitchell. He remembered Pavlović from 2011. In retrospect, the man had been a typical double agent – smooth, slimy, secretive and opportunistic. He was also clever, and capable of using anyone at all for his own ends. His involvement in the murders of Elena and Sasha Gavrik had surprised Harry. He'd even wondered back then where the information about Sasha's paternity had come from. He'd always assumed that Elena had told her husband, perhaps to punish him. He had not ever fully understood Elena. She had always been complex and elusive, a woman of many layers, almost all of them hidden.

"Did you know about Sasha Gavrik?" Ruth had asked him, ignoring Graham's silent presence in the room.

"I knew Elena had a son, but I was sure he wasn't mine, despite what she told me to the contrary."

Ruth had glanced quickly at Graham to see him staring out the window, ignoring their conversation. "Perhaps you can prepare dinner, Graham, while Harry and I discuss this further." Graham had left the living room, relieved to not have to listen to any more.

"He shouldn't have had to listen to this," Ruth said quietly, watching Harry staring after his son's back as he left the room.

He turned back to her, his jaw set. "I agree, but he was determined to hear the whole thing. I hadn't expected my affair with Elena Gavrik to be aired."

"The news surprised me also, although I wasn't shocked. I'd heard how things were back then. Did you .. love her?"

"I don't know. I thought I did, but I also loved my wife. I know that makes little sense, but it hardly matters now."

Ruth recognised his words, his tone, as bringing the subject to an end. He didn't want to talk about it. "I think we should both go back to London for a while, Harry. Graham can stay here and keep an eye on this house. He's safer here than he is in town. He can still work. He might miss his friends, but that can't be helped."

Harry waited a while, contemplating how to put his next suggestion. He felt intense relief that Ruth had accepted his side of the Elena Gavrik story, and if anything she'd seemed almost disinterested. Besides, he needed to organise Ruth's birthday present, but without her being around. "I need Graham to accompany me to Lowestoft tomorrow. He and I have something we need to do. Once that's .. organised .. you and I can leave." Harry noticed Ruth's half frown of inquiry, but she said nothing more. "It's just something he and I have to do .. before we go."

"It's all right, Harry. I don't have a need to know every little private thought you have."

* * *

London – Ruth's town house – 3 days later, morning:

Ruth leaned her shoulder against the door frame and watched Harry, once again admiring the smooth and flowing movements of his arms and fingers as they clasped the shaver, drawing it effortlessly along his jaw to his chin. She glanced into the mirror above the basin to see his eyes on her. "It's just shaving, Ruth." he said quietly, running a finger along his shaved cheek.

"Everything you do holds fascination for me."

Harry stood up straight, still holding her eyes in the mirror. "So now you know how I feel about you applying make up, or bras, or those flimsy things you call knickers."

"You watch me?"

"Of course I watch you. I'm always watching you." He returned to the mirror, bending slightly, turning his face so that he could examine his other cheek. "I like to watch you fully clothed, imagining those scraps of fabric beneath your clothing, and how they barely cover .. what they're designed to cover."

Ruth felt her face flushing. Although he had been looking in the mirror at his own face, to her it felt like the first time she had stood naked before him, his eyes wandering up and down her body hungrily. "I have to ring Malcolm," she said quickly. "He'll need to know about .. developments."

Harry nodded, glancing towards Ruth in the mirror. He suppressed his usual sigh. Ruth had lived alone, without intimacy, for almost as long as he had. She was taking a while to unwind. He wanted everything, and he wanted it now – before he grew too old to be able to enjoy it – while Ruth was taking two steps forward, and one and a half steps back. Perhaps she didn't yet trust him. Perhaps she didn't quite trust herself. But they were under the same roof together, having spent the night in the same bed, and that was a very, very good thing.

Downstairs, Ruth was making a quick batch of pancakes. She would have been satisfied with just a slice of buttered toast, but she was making the pancakes for Harry, because she knew how much he enjoyed them, especially now he had time in the mornings for eating a decent breakfast. As she slid each prepared pancake onto the oven proof dish, she thought of their brief exchange while Harry had been shaving. She was still not certain why it was his direct comments embarrassed and confronted her so. She had always known he had the potential for being a protective partner, an attentive and sensitive lover, a man for whom kindness was expressed as readily as anger, a man who knew what he wanted, who had high standards, a man of decency and morality. So why did she shy away from true intimacy with him?

She heard his footsteps on the stairs and she decided to step outside her comfort zone, the place to which she retreated in order to remain safe. She turned to smile at Harry as he entered the kitchen. On his face she saw wariness, as though he was still not sure about how she would react to him. Very tentatively he returned her smile, and then she turned off the burner and walked towards him, meeting him beside the table.

"What -" he began, but his words were stopped by Ruth's finger pressed against his lips.

"Say nothing," she said, as she pressed her body against him, resulting in a sudden intake of his breath. Ruth placed her palms on his chest, covered only by a grey open-necked shirt which he had not yet bothered to tuck into his trousers. When she pressed her body harder against him, so that her breasts pushed against his chest, and her belly nestled against his groin, he took a deeper breath, one meant to calm him in a situation which was anything but calming for him. "I need you to know," she continued, "that I love you .. so much .. perhaps more than is comfortable for me, and .. I find it hard to ..." _I'm finding it hard, too_ , he thought, _but not in the way you mean_. ".. be the kind of woman you need me to be."

"Ruth .." Again she pushed her finger against his lips.

"Not yet. This is me .. talking to you, but .. through the language of our bodies. I haven't the words to say what I .. want to, so .." She took his face in both hands, her fingers glancing across his newly shaven skin. Then she lifted her face to kiss him on his lips. By this time both his arms were around her, and so he pulled her against him and returned the kiss. It had been over three days since they had made love, and so in the kitchen of Ruth's town house, Harry allowed Ruth to seduce him.

Their kisses continued while the pancakes sat in the warmer above the oven, where Ruth suspected they may stay. Somehow she had managed to open all the buttons on his shirt, and then while running her palms over his bare skin, both his hands found their way underneath her skirt, where he grasped her buttocks, squeezing gently. As his fingers inched their way beneath the elastic of her ridiculously designed knickers – all lace and space and a heart attack rolled into one – Ruth slid one hand inside the waist band of Harry's trousers, her fingers finding him hot and eager. "Can you make it back upstairs?" she asked, pushing her lips against his neck, where her tongue drew circles on his skin until he almost cried out.

"Are you mad?" was all he said before he began massaging her sex with two fingers, resulting in her legs almost giving way beneath her, and when he slid both fingers inside her, he felt her muscles undulating around his fingers, and she called out his name, pressing her forehead against his shoulder.

Ruth rested her body against Harry, wondering whether she would ever walk again. He held her weight, whispering endearments and compliments in her ear. Against her belly he was still hard. "Sit down," she said, once she could breathe evenly.

"Wh -"

"Sit!" So he did. Ruth knelt before him, unbuttoning his trousers and then lowering his zip. "Now you can take them off," she said. Harry quite liked this Ruth, a Ruth who knew what she wanted, so he did as he was told.

He had expected her to go down on him, but when she removed her own knickers and arranged herself across his knees, his first thought was that the chair didn't look strong enough to hold them both. "If this chair breaks," he said between kisses, "I'm saving myself first." Ruth's shocked and open-eyed glare had him chuckling, that is until she grasped his shaft in one hand and lowered herself onto him. Then she began a slow and steady rhythm of love-making. Neither spoke, which had become their habit while making love. Harry closed his eyes as he leaned back, allowing himself to be loved by her, while Ruth watched him, his face blissful, while she moved against him.

Afterwards, Ruth again rested against him, while he wrapped both arms around her. They stayed that way for some minutes, until Harry had to speak. "My legs, Ruth," he whispered against her cheek, "and this chair. If it breaks one of us may die, and being on the bottom that will probably -"

"Oh, shut up," she said, lifting herself away from him, and then very carefully standing, using his shoulders as props to steady her. "I open all of myself to you, and all you can do is moan."

"I wasn't the only one moaning."

Ruth had already grabbed her knickers and was sliding them up her legs. She lifted her eyes to his to see his smile, cheekily confronting. She leaned over him to place a gentle kiss on his lips. "Now, get dressed," she said, gently running one finger along his spent penis, "before I'm tempted all over again."

Harry lifted his buttocks and pulled up his underwear and then his trousers, carefully avoiding eye contact with Ruth. He suddenly realised how invigorating and how exciting his life could be were this `new' Ruth to stay.

* * *

Harry had already left to meet the estate agent at his London house when the doorbell rang. Ruth had suggested that while Harry was busy Malcolm visit her with his findings. Malcolm looked relaxed and happy, something Ruth had missed spotting the previous three times she'd seen him, so overwhelming had been her focus on herself and Harry. Malcolm entered her kitchen ahead of her. "Shall we sit here?" he asked, indicating the kitchen table. When Ruth nodded, he chose to sit on the same chair that only two hours earlier she and Harry had pushed to its structural limits. She smiled, hoping the chair was not about to choose this moment to collapse under Malcolm's weight.

Ruth made a pot of tea, and along with mugs and sugar and milk, she placed it on a place mat in the middle of the table. When she sat down in the chair opposite Malcolm, he wasted no time. "Everything Mitchell told you appears to be true, Ruth," he began, "or if not on the record, it is highly probable."

"He seemed .. genuine to me," she replied. "Did you discover anything more about the young woman, or Pavlović?"

"Only that the Croatian could well be a double agent, especially given his travels over the past two years. The only thing which has me stumped is where the man could be staying. I was able to trace him from Croatia – Zagreb to Split – and then to Athens, where he stayed for a few nights. It appears he has a woman there – a rather young woman, too – and from there to Paris, where he stayed in a hotel for a night, and then by Eurostar to London, where he stayed for another night. He may have travelled north by train, but there's been no sign of him anywhere. He hasn't booked into any hotels or even B&B's." Malcolm quickly consulted his notes which he had stored on his electronic tablet. "The girl, on the other hand, is much easier to trace. Her name is Madeleine Mary Stafford." Malcolm lifted his eyes to Ruth and waited while she mulled over the name.

"It rings a bell, Malcolm, but it's been almost seven years since -" and then she remembered something. "How old is Madeleine Stafford?"

"She's twenty-four, born in October 1988. She was fourteen years old when her father was killed in that operation led by Tom Quinn .. do you remember it?"

"How can I forget? Tom was so sure that the end justified the means."

"And Harry had indicated his disgust at Tom's plan."

Again Ruth's forehead wrinkled in a frown. "So .. Laurence Stafford was Madeleine's father?"

"He was. She lived in Slough with her mother. Back then – in the spring of 2003, just after you joined us, Ruth – the DoD was willing to pay compensation to families of soldiers who died domestically in the line of duty. Madeleine never forgot that it was the British security service which ordered the raid in which her father died. I suppose she became a little .. twisted as a result."

"Who can blame her? She'd have been ripe for the picking when Toma Pavlović met her."

"It appears that he sought her out."

"What? How? Why?"

"Pavlović rarely does his own dirty work. Look at what he did to ensure Ilya Gavrik killed his wife, whom the Russians suspected of being a double agent."

"But Gavrik also killed his own son, who was FSB. Was that considered collateral damage?"

"I suspect so, Ruth. That's the term used to justify pointless loss of life."

"Now I feel sorry for the Gavrik woman .. and her son."

"Don't be." Malcolm quickly glanced up at Ruth, monitoring her mood. "Do you .. are you aware that … the Gavrik woman -"

"That she and Harry had been lovers?" Malcolm nodded, relieved. "Yes. Harry has been quite open about it, although he wouldn't share details."

"Do you want details?" Ruth shook her head. "That's good."

"What now?"

"Now?"

"We know who all the protagonists are," she said, "and we suspect we have an idea about why they are where they are. What do we do with this information?"

"We wait."


	15. Chapter 15

**_A/N : Thanks to readers, and especially those who have taken time to review. I hope you continue to enjoy._**

* * *

" _The body of an unidentified man has been found washed up on a beach three miles south of Cromer in Norfolk." The BBC announcer had a terribly posh voice. Grace sat up straight and looked at her radio in the corner of her cramped living room, as if keeping it in her line of sight would ensure the announcer would deliver only good news into her home. "The man, aged between thirty and fifty, was wearing dark grey trousers and a brown jacket, with brown leather brogues, all made in England. Anyone knowing the identity of this man is asked to contact police."_

 _Grace heard nothing more. The description fitted Michael, and he had been headed to Norfolk, `to see my cousins', which she suspected had not been the truth. Suddenly the grey day was so much greyer."_

* * *

London - Two days later – early evening:

"Oh Malcolm, that was scrumptious," Ruth said, sitting back, having placed her serviette on her side plate. "I had no idea you could cook like that. Will you marry me?"

All three other people at the dining table in Malcolm's house looked at her with alarm. Malcolm's expression was more embarrassed than alarmed; Dawn's eyes were saucer-like, as if she believed that this younger, attractive woman really had set her cap at Malcolm, while Harry appeared worried that Ruth's allegiances could be changed on the mere basis of an appetising main course.

When everyone had regained their equilibrium Malcolm quietly commented, "I suspect that Harry might have something to say about that, Ruth."

"And me," piped up Dawn, laughing lightly to cover her embarrassment.

"I'm sorry," Ruth added. "It wasn't meant to be taken literally." She looked around the table, and three stunned expressions met her. "It was a joke, everyone."

"I knew that," Malcolm said, his eyes scanning the others at the table. "Were you looking to marry anyone, Ruth, I wouldn't expect it to be me. On another note, I used free range pork. I find it tastier and less fatty." Then he rose and gathered everyone's plates. Dawn quickly got up to help him.

Once Malcolm and Dawn had disappeared into the kitchen, Harry turned to her and whispered. "Cat among the pigeons, Ruth."

"I know. I meant it as a joke."

"Not to Dawn. I think she might be composing a list of hit men as we speak."

"It was just a throw away line. I haven't been thinking of marrying anyone."

"You haven't?" Ruth thought Harry appeared hurt.

"No. We're fine as we are .. for now." Harry was about to speak when Ruth interrupted. "Can we discuss this some other time? We're meant to be enjoying ourselves."

"Then perhaps you can refrain from hitting on Malcolm."

"I wasn't -" and Ruth never finished the sentence, as Malcolm and Dawn returned to the dining room, all smiles and bonhomie. Harry was sure they were faking it.

* * *

Two hours later Harry drove them home to Ruth's town house. While Ruth had planned to collect her own car from Malcolm's garage and drive it home, when the end of the evening came she was tired, and declared there would be other opportunities for her to collect her car.

"What did you think of Dawn?" Ruth asked as Harry turned the car out of Malcolm's street.

He took several moments to answer. He was negotiating a slow and meandering vehicle ahead of them, and once he had successfully overtaken the slow car, he glanced at Ruth. "Why? What did you think of her?"

"I asked you first."

Again he seemed to take his time, mulling over his thoughts before he spoke. "I expected someone different. I thought she'd be quieter – more like Malcolm. I found her to be a bit .. bossy."

" _You_ can be bossy, Harry, but Malcolm isn't. Perhaps he requires an assertive woman to …keep him focused."

"I said bossy, not assertive, and Malcolm has always been focused. He doesn't require anyone to keep him that way."

"I found her rather .. interesting," Ruth said. "Did you know that she's travelled?"

"I heard the two of you talking about Italy."

"She's been everywhere. Her late husband began his own travel agency in the early 1980's, and they travelled extensively throughout their marriage. I found her to be rather engaging."

"But bossy."

Ruth waited for a while, taking advantage of the silence between them to formulate her question. "Harry .. was your ex-wife .. bossy?"

"God .. _yes_. Although she wasn't like that when we first got together."

And so Harry shared with Ruth the story of his marriage to Jane. He told her about the early days with her, which were peaceful and promising and full of love and fun, and then the first signs of difficulty which emerged once their daughter was born. Jane was busy with the baby, and Harry was wrapped up in his work; difficulties between them were never resolved, and eventually no longer acknowledged. They argued often, and their arguments were often punctuated with verbal cruelty, so that their daughter soon learned to recognise the warning signs, and would take her brother upstairs to protect him from their parents' frightening and bewildering behaviour towards one another. When they were not fighting a void of silence lay heavily between them. They had simply run out of things to say to one another.

Once Harry parked the car outside Ruth's town house, they walked inside together, and without checking with her, he began making them a pot of tea. Ruth sat at the table and watched while he filled the kettle and prepared the pot with leaf tea from a jar marked `Salt'. "Are you shocked?" Harry said once he had sat down.

"Shocked? By what?"

"By what I told you. My behaviour towards my wife."

"A little," she replied, "but most of us have skeletons in our cupboards .. things we'd rather not talk about. Most of all I appreciate your honesty. I imagine Jane has her own version of events."

Harry twisted his mouth to the side as he watched her. "She certainly has. We eventually had to stop direct communication with one another .. for the sake of our children."

"Can you talk to her now?"

"Strangely, yes, but we so seldom have a reason to contact one another that it's no longer an issue."

Ruth nodded, and then focused her attention on her cup of tea. She couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to have her relationship with Harry deteriorate and eventually implode, as had happened between he and Jane. They had married. They had exchanged vows. They had liked one another, loved one another, just as she and he did. They had had two children, so enduring a dramatic and painful divorce was never part of their grand plan. When had they each decided that their marriage was not worth fighting for?

"We didn't get married planning to part," Harry said quietly, as if reading Ruth's thoughts.

She quickly looked up at him and nodded. "I know that," she said.

"That will never be us, Ruth," he said, having watched the fears stream their way across her features. For some time they sat over their tea in silence, each struggling with their own personal fears. Harry wanted to get up and grab Ruth in his arms and hold her to him, reassuring her that he would fight for her, fight for them, but instead he reached out to grasp her hand across the table. They sat that way for several minutes, when Harry remembered he'd planned to ring Graham. "Is it too late to ring him now?"he asked.

"Wait until the morning," Ruth suggested. "What can possibly happen between now and the morning?"

What indeed?

* * *

"Wakey wakey, Goran," the Scotsman called from outside his cabin door, his large hand heavy on the wood as he knocked. "Your shift begins in ten minutes."

Toma Pavlović groaned and rolled over. He had had no more than two hours sleep, and now he was faced with an eight hour night shift. "I'll be there in a minute," he called, closing his eyes for just twenty seconds more.

"Nine minutes!" Jim Cameron called, knocking once more on the cabin door.

Toma sat up and rubbed his face. He could feign illness, but he'd already had three sick days, which he'd spent in Great Yarmouth, seeing a `specialist'. He considered his work here to be done, but to avoid suspicion he'd have to endure at least five more shifts as a maintenance technician on the Leman E gas rig. His three month crash course had not prepared him for the long hours of working in such close proximity to others, and the peculiar humour of his fellow workers, most of which went right over his head.

When he entered his work space Toma waved his swipe card across the light of the clocking on machine. Goran Babić was about to begin his shift. Six more days and he'd be back in Zagreb. He'd be counting the hours until the end of his shift. He would be sending an encrypted message to _Vuk_ , and he hoped his pack leader would appreciate his efforts.

* * *

It was unusual for Graham Pearce to go for a drink after work. For a start, he didn't drink .. not any more. He would sit on a lemon and bitters while his mates from work poured lager down their throats like it was their last day on earth. Graham told himself he needed to wind down after a six hour shift, but that wasn't the real reason he sat around with people while they consumed drinks which had them becoming less rational, less like themselves with every drink they poured into them. He liked the buzz, the atmosphere of a pub. It was noisy, vibrant, clamorous. It was often dangerous, as he rubbed shoulders with drug dealers, and people who would threaten to cut him if he bumped them. It was England unplugged, up-to-date, twenty-first century; it was the seamier and darker flip side of the infamous British politeness. It would be highly unlikely he would accidentally bump into either of his parents in a place like this, which made it a safe haven for him. Except .. that it was no longer _his_ safe haven. He no longer drank .. or smoked, or shot heroin into his arm .. or ankle or thigh or neck. He no longer negotiated the purchase of meth amphetamine with people who would sell their own mother if it meant they could continue to live outside the contraints of the law. He no longer rubbed shoulders with drug dealers and criminals. He was a decent citizen, and even the great Harry Pearce approved of him. Perhaps, after all this time, he was slowly turning into his father.

Graham was smiling at the turn his thoughts had taken when he was shaken from his reverie by the sound of his name. Turning from the bar where he was leaning while watching couples shuffling about on the dance floor, he saw his work mate, Chris, leading a couple of men in suits and ties in his general direction. "This is Graham Pearce," Chris said, a half empty glass of lager in one hand, the liquid close to slopping out of the glass onto the floor. "Whatcha done, Pearcey? Robbed a bank? Run down an old lady in that heap of shit you call a car?"

Graham placed his drink on the bar and stood up. _The Filth_ , he thought. _Just what I need to round off the evening_. "I'm Graham Pearce," he said with a smile. He was about to say, `Can I help you?', but then stopped himself, not wanting to sound like a prat to the police.

The shorter of the two detectives flashed a warrant card and gave his name as Detective Sergeant Amit Kapoor, and then when he introduced his companion, Graham missed the name altogether. _What was going on_? He was beginning to panic. Was this his dark past catching up with him?

* * *

Next morning it was barely five-thirty when they were woken by Harry's phone ringing from his bedside table. "Christ," he said irritably, "where's the fire?" He lifted himself onto one elbow and grabbed his phone. "It's Graham," he said before answering. "This can't be good news."

By this time Ruth was awake, and so she rolled onto her side and watched and listened while Harry took the call from his son. She heard Graham's voice on the other end of the call, but was unable to make out his words. Harry, on the other hand, was right next to her, his phone against his ear. "Could you repeat that?" he said after listening to Graham speaking for over a minute. Ruth was immediately curious. "That's what I thought you said," Harry said after listening to Graham again. "What do the police say?"

Ruth switched off for a moment, knowing Harry would share the call with her once it was over, but it seemed clear to her that no sooner had she and Harry left North Suffolk for London, than things had begun to kick off. Something rather big had happened back home.

Ruth rolled on to her back and stared up at the ceiling. She'd just thought of Harry's Gothic retreat as home. She felt her face relax into a self-satisfied smile. For the first time since she'd left Cyprus she had a home, somewhere she could safely leave her possessions, a place where someone waited eagerly for her return.

She had only just heard Harry end his call when he turned towards her. "What are you smiling about?" he said gruffly from beside her, his face close to hers.

"I'd just been thinking .. about something."

"And are you about to tell me what that something is?"

"Not now, no. What's happened to Graham?"

"He's spent half the night being interviewed by the police in Great Yarmouth."

Ruth's forehead creased with worry and confusion. Harry waited for her to speak but her only action was to reach out to him and lay a hand on his arm. He lifted his other hand to lay on top of hers. "He's all right, though," she said at last.

Harry nodded. "He is now."

"So ..."

"He was interviewed because he'd been seeing Madeleine Stafford, and because she was loosely linked to Derek Mitchell."

"Something has happened .. hasn't it?"

"Yes. It has. Some time in the last thirty hours both Maddie Stafford and Derek Mitchell died, both under circumstances which the police have termed `suspicious'."


	16. Chapter 16

_Grace was mucking out the cow shed when she heard her name being called. She dropped her spade and wandered outside, squinting as she stepped into the light of another summer's day. She lifted her hand to shade her eyes._

" _What is it?" she asked, looking around, but only saw Betsy, who was dressed like her, in her oldest dress, a cardigan with holes, and black wellies which reached her knees. Betsy dipped her head to her right, and then Grace saw him. "Eddie," she said with a distinct absence of enthusiasm._

" _You're a difficult girl to find," he said smiling, but keeping his distance in case filth was contagious. Many times Grace had had to remind Eddie that she was a woman and not a girl, but he wouldn't hear of it. "Your father told me you'd be here."_

" _Yes, I'm sure he did," she said, but the sarcasm was lost on Eddie. He was not a complex man. It was in that moment that Grace knew it was time she made a complete break._

* * *

North Suffolk – next day:

"Thanks for coming home," Graham said over Harry's shoulder as his father briefly embraced him. They were not ordinarily demonstrative with one another, but the circumstances which had brought Harry back home were beyond the ordinary. "I didn't expect you to ..."

"I couldn't leave you here alone," Harry said.

Graham withdrew from his father's embrace, a little embarrassed that at thirty he had needed and appreciated the comfort. "You've left Ruth alone."

"It was her idea I come home to be with you. Besides, she has people all around her, and without me there she can write in peace."

"I'm not sure you should be putting my needs ahead of hers."

Harry had already headed into the living area, and had dropped his bag onto the floor beside the table. "Tea?" he suggested, and Graham nodded. With Graham off the booze as well as the drugs, Harry was having to change his habits, and he was sure Ruth would appreciate the irony; she would find it all so bloody amusing. He would have preferred a whiskey, but it wasn't even midday, so he hoped his liver would appreciate his level of sacrifice.

"I still don't think you should have left Ruth in London alone."

"Sit down. I'll make us a pot of tea."

"Dad.. you're not hearing me."

"I heard you. I did, but Ruth can't come here again until we have her birthday gift ready .. can she?"

"I guess not."

Harry turned from where he stood beside the kitchen bench. "You'd best tell me the full story," he said.

* * *

Toma Pavlović had just sent his message to _Vuk_. How very like his handler to liken himself to a wolf. The man was obsessed with predatory animals, along with the (apparently weaker) animals on which they preyed. Toma's message – encrypted, of course – had said: _All's well that ends well._ (His handler also fancied himself a devotee of Shakespeare, which Toma found both pretentious and bewildering.) _Both targets down. I am not a suspect.  
_

Toma was not about to share everything with _Vuk,_ although he was annoyed about having two less contacts in the UK. Murdering the young English woman had been difficult. He had liked her, and she had always been eager to please. He had had sex with her one last time, which had necessitated him having to take her out to sea to kill her, and then dump the body over the side of the boat. He knew the tides. It would take at least twelve hours for her body to be carried to shore, in which time all evidence of his contact with her would have been washed away.

His tablet beeped with a message. It was from _Vuk._ He immediately engaged the encryption to decipher the message. _Well done_ , it said. _No more instructions. Prepare to leave on the 30_ _th_. Toma was annoyed. _Vuk_ was an Englishman who lived in Zagreb. Toma didn't trust the English, aside from the girl, and he'd had to kill her. His sojourn on the gas rig had been extended by another five days. _Fuck_ , he said aloud in English. He was too angry to sleep.

* * *

Harry and Graham had taken their mugs of tea outside, where they stood on the terrace overlooking the back garden. Harry was sure all the small plants and seedlings had grown since last he'd seen them. The day was cool and sunny, and the lightest of breezes wafted across the garden from the sea, fluttering the leaves of the seedlings and small trees.

"You're going to have to buy an outdoor table setting," Graham said.

"I know. All in good time. When are they starting on the office renovations?"

"In the excitement I'd almost forgotten. Tomorrow."

"Good."

"You haven't asked about your bedroom."

"Since your phone call I've barely thought about the house itself. Why did you mention it?"

"You need to check it out."

"You've finished it?"

Graham nodded. "Now you need to get a new duvet cover .. and all that other stuff."

"All that other stuff?" Harry asked, turning to his son with one eyebrow lifted.

"You know, pillowcases and shit."

"Pillowcases and shit. I'll search for those in John Lewis' online store, shall I?" Harry smiled at Graham and then went back to surveying the garden. It wasn't a Grid full of very stressed, but efficient operatives, but it was his – his and Ruth's – and that was what mattered. "So tell me the gory details." Harry felt Graham's eyes on him, staring in that way the lad had had from a very early age. Again he turned towards Graham. "I know that Mitchell was found hanging in his hotel room by Madeleine Stafford, and then just over twelve hours later her body was found washed up on the beach. You must have more to tell me. What have you heard? What does your gut say?"

"The cops told me almost nothing. They think Maddie killed Mitch."

"And did she?"

"How would I know? I hadn't spoken to her for over a week."

"There must be a third party involved," Harry said quietly. "The girl couldn't have murdered the Mitchell fellow alone. She'd have needed help."

"I know. Malcolm hasn't traced the double agent yet?"

"Not yet, no, but when he does -"

Harry's sentence was cut short when Graham exclaimed, "The oil rigs! Has Malcolm checked the logs of the oil and gas rigs. What better place to hide than on one of them?"

"They're not exactly a holiday destination," Harry said, taking his eyes back to the garden. "It's difficult to get onto one of them."

"I know that. How hard could it be for a double agent to get some training and quite legitimately get a job on one of the offshore platforms? That Croatian double agent could have done that. I suspect he was also the one Maddie went to when she photographed pages of Mitchell's diary. She told me she'd met some Croatian guy from one of the offshore rigs."

"I'll ring Malcolm. To be honest, I think that the deaths are not .. of concern to us, but we still need to be watchful .. and careful. Did you ever tell Maddie about me? What I did for a living?"

"No. Why would I? The very last thing I'd be likely to tell her would be that I spend my days off with my dad. That's massively uncool. All she knew about me was that I live with my mates."

"If they knew about me, then they'd also know about you."

"Yeah, I know. To be honest, Maddie and I didn't do much talking." Graham glanced at Harry, who had chosen to not react to Graham's information.

* * *

London - next day:

Ruth wandered through the showroom of the store which sold bathroom fittings. She and Harry had talked about the bathroom in his house, and how it needed a bigger bath. She'd already seen three bathtubs on the showroom floor which could comfortably accommodate a family of four, and still leave room for the family dog. All they needed was a tub big enough for them both to sit in comfortably, without feeling squashed against one another. She didn't find anything she especially liked, although she'd seen several baths she didn't like, which was a start.

Ruth also thought that their bedroom in Harry's house could do with a splash of colour, but she wasn't sure how to broach the subject without offending Harry, so when she arrived home to find an email from Harry asking her to comment on his choices of duvet cover to replace the grey and navy cover, Ruth smiled widely. She scrolled through the choices Harry had presented for her perusal, and noting that all his options had featured a light sky blue, she eventually decided upon the abstract flower print in soft blues and white. She quickly sent a brief email reply.

With only an hour before she was to meet with her editor from Melios, she quickly changed into a dress and jacket, and touched up her make-up. She had heard that Angela Simms was a stickler for order and time management, so she felt the need to at least appear as though she was also.

* * *

Harry had insisted that Graham not contact the police with the information Malcolm had given them. "This is now an intelligence services issue, Graham," Harry said. "I know just the person to send after this Goran Babić."

"Provided he's the right man," Graham countered.

"He is. He ticks all the boxes."

What Harry wasn't about to share with Graham was that Malcolm had intercepted an encrypted message – which he had yet to decrypt – between Babić on a gas rig one hundred kilometres off the coast of Great Yarmouth, and an email address in Zagreb which he had already linked to a certain former chairman of the Joint Intelligence Committee. It was this link which frightened Harry, because once this Englishman knew that Ruth was alive and back in the UK, it could become tricky for them both. Thus, Harry felt the need to take the fate of Babić/Pavlović into his own hands. It would take a few days to set up, but it was definitely doable.

His first call was to the mobile phone belonging to Iain MacRae, section head at Six, and his second call was to Dimitri Levendis.

* * *

Ruth had suggested she meet Angela Simms somewhere close to her own home. So when only minutes before she was to leave for their agreed meeting place her phone rang, she almost didn't answer. It was a mobile number she didn't recognise. Above anything else, Ruth Evershed was a woman of curiosity, so she opened her phone and answered with a tentative, "Emma Ruth speaking."

Thirty-five minutes later she was sitting in the lounge of a pub not far from where she lived, the glass walls giving her an open view of the street. She knew that Angela Simms' assistant editor was a man called Russell Toomey, but she'd had no warning that he would be so attractive. When first she saw him Ruth had found herself blushing, embarrassed by her adolescent behaviour. He was dressed in a charcoal grey suit with a white shirt and mauve tie. She had a brief but vivid memory of Harry having once dressed for work in an almost identical outfit, and she felt a surge of warmth at the memory. Russell was around her own age, with a mop of unruly brown hair which regularly had him pushing it back from his forehead.

"Sorry I'm late," he said. "The traffic was abominable." Ruth had laughed lightly at his use of the word, `abominable'. Russell had ordered them each a coffee, and then had placed his iPad on the table in front of him, and swiped the screen a few times until he found the right page. When his phone rang, he rolled his eyes at her and took it from his jacket pocket, declining the call, and then turning off the phone. "Convenience or curse – you be the judge," he'd added with a smile.

The next two hours flew by as Russell took them both through Ruth's outline for her second novel. "You'll soon need to come up with a title," he began. Ruth had nodded her assent, although she believed the book title to be the least of her concerns. Russell had questioned Ruth's use of an Englishman who had spied for the Germans as a hook to bring Michael back into Grace's life. "She finds this guy dead on a beach? How likely is that?" Ruth had replied that it was very likely, especially in 1947, when some English men and women who had spied for both countries had found themselves in a difficult position in their own country, and so were forced to hide in remote areas of the country. She went on to add that it would have to be something serious, and potentially dangerous to have Grace risking contact with Michael. "You seem to know rather a lot about the life of a spy," Russell had said warily, which Ruth had recognised as a fishing expedition.

"I've done my research," she replied, and Russell had lifted his eyebrows so high that they had almost disappeared beneath his hairline.

The two hours had been spent with Russell playing devil's advocate, and Ruth listening, and then replying. She was confident that her proposed story line was not only appropriate for the established characters, but would build on her first book in which Michael had worked undercover for the intelligence service during the closing years of the war.

"Good. I'm happy with that," he said at last, closing his iPad and looking across the room towards the bar. "How about a drink to celebrate?"

Ruth was expecting to be able to leave immediately the meeting had ended, so his suggestion of a drink had surprised her. Her car was still in Malcolm's garage, and so she had travelled to the hotel by taxi. What harm could there be in a drink, or maybe two? "That sounds nice," she said with a smile. "I'd rather like a dry white wine." When Russell returned from the bar with a bottle of chablis and two glasses on a tray, she almost groaned. She wanted to head home to ring Harry, but it was also in her best interests to be pleasant to this man.

Two and a half hours and two full bottles of wine later it had just gone six o'clock, and Ruth insisted she needed to get home.

"I'll drive you," Russell said hopefully. Ruth accepted his offer, but only because it would be cheaper than her having to pay for another taxi. She really had to get her car from Malcolm's.

It was only a fifteen minute drive to her town house, and Ruth thanked Russell for the lift, and had almost managed to leave the car when he asked her the very question she'd hoped he wouldn't. "Emma," he said, and Ruth sat back and turned to look his way. "I know you said you were busy tonight, but would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow night? I .. like you, and would enjoy getting to know you better in a less formal setting." Less formal? What could be less formal than killing an afternoon over two bottles of wine? Ruth hesitated, and Russell noted her hesitation. "I'm sorry," he said. "I noticed you were not wearing a wedding ring, and since I am also single, I thought .. why not? There's no harm in asking."

"Russell," she said, looking him right in the eye, "you do know that the characters Michael and Grace are loosely based on my own story with my .. partner." Ruth struggled whenever describing Harry as her partner. In her head he was half her partner, and the other half still her boss. "When I'm not living in this house," she said, nodding towards her town house, "I live with him .. in the country." When she noted the expression of hope had not left his face, she added, "I am committed to him. We have known one another for ten years. I don't play around, and neither does he."

Russell had nodded and smiled, but stayed in his seat as she left his car and headed to her small two-storied home. Then she remembered something Heather Matheson had told her about the staff at Melios. Once she was inside and Russell had driven away, she woke up her laptop and googled `Russell Toomey wife Melios images'. Sure enough, up came four images – two of them captured during the past eight weeks – of a very handsome Russell Toomey and his beautiful wife, Heidi. What a toad, she thought. Not only did it not bother him that she was in a committed relationship – a fact he already knew – but he was prepared to go behind the back of his own wife, who in the most recent images appeared to be around six months pregnant.

Although she knew that Graham was staying with Harry, and that they would soon be eating dinner, she desperately needed to speak to him. He answered after the third ring.

"Is something wrong, Ruth?"

"Yes. Other than you, all the men in the entire world are complete bastards."

Without missing a beat Harry answered her. "Tell me all about it, Ruth," and so she did.


	17. Chapter 17

_Almost a month after you disappeared into the wilds of Norfolk you turned up in my kitchen. You didn't knock, but stepped through the doorway, ducking sideways to avoid hitting your head. I looked up from the newspaper I had spread across the kitchen table._

" _There's nothing worth reading in there," you said._

" _I know. It's to protect the table top while I polish my shoes."_

 _Your smile softened your eyes and then your mouth. I flew to your side, and you caught me in your arms. We kissed, and through my summer dress and your cotton shirt I felt the rapid beating of your heart._

" _You're alive," I said after a while._

" _I am now."_

* * *

North Suffolk – 13 days later – 4.54 pm:

Malcolm and Harry sat at the new outdoor setting on the lawn in Harry's back garden, a bottle of light red wine sitting on the table between them. Graham had left an hour earlier to begin his shift at the café in Great Yarmouth. There was a lot they had still to talk about, but both were sitting back, their faces lifted to capture the afternoon sun, far warmer than any sunshine Harry had experienced since he'd moved to his Suffolk retreat.

"You must miss her," Malcolm said, knowing that Harry would know of whom he spoke.

"I do, but this time I know she'll be returning."

Malcolm eyed Harry for a long moment. Harry had always been something of a closed book, but of late he was very slowly and cautiously opening up. There had been moments when, like a door opening after having been locked for years, a glimmer of light would appear as Harry shared with Malcolm some small snippet of himself. "Dawn and I spend at least four days out of seven away from one another. It makes the times we have together so much sweeter," he observed.

Harry understood what Malcolm was saying, and felt no need to acknowledge his observation. He gazed over the back yard to the vast grove of trees which covered the rise behind the house. His house was surrounded by trees and shrubs, which had been one of its main attractions. The beech trees, their ancient trunks thick and sturdy, created a visual barrier, so that unless you were looking for the house, you'd never know it was there. It was the perfect hideaway for him .. for him and Ruth.

The two men allowed another silence to settle between them. They had their wine, the gentle intrusion of the countryside, and they had their common history. Sometimes there was little need for conversation.

"I won't allow Ruth to return to this house until two things have happened. The first is a birthday gift which is almost ready for her, but not quite. Graham tells me he has something for her which he'll be collecting in two days, so he'd prefer she come home after that. The second is the state of the Croatian connection. I haven't yet heard anything, and I need to know that Ruth will be safe here before she returns."

"Ah," Malcolm said, carefully placing his empty wine glass on the table top, "I think I can help you with that. It's one of the reasons I'm here." Harry turned slightly to catch Malcolm's eye, one eyebrow raised in a question. "I wasn't sure whether you knew."

"Knew? I've heard nothing from Dimitri, and he's spent the last year just over the border .. in Slovenia."

Malcolm had been dreading this conversation, which was the chief reason he'd taken his time broaching the subject. He knew how touchy Harry could be, and he hadn't wanted to risk an outburst, the likes of which he'd not witnessed since his days on the Grid. "I've had to electronically surveil two homes in Zagreb."

"Zagreb? How have you managed that?"

Malcolm sat up straight, shifting slightly on his chair. "I .. liaised with a couple of MI-6 agents who are stationed there. They have the equipment and the means to set it up."

"Liaised? With whom?"

"I'd rather not say. You know how .. delicate such contacts can be." Harry nodded, his outrage suppressed for the moment. "I took the liberty of bypassing the usual channels, and with the help of my .. contact, I have electronic surveillance on both Toma Pavlović and the person he answers to in Croatia, a man calling himself _Vuk_ \- the Wolf – an Englishman who is uneasy about returning to Britain." Malcolm stared hard at Harry.

"You're talking about Oliver, aren't you? Oliver has been _handling_ Pavlović?" Malcolm nodded, a little afraid of Harry's reaction to this news. "Has this been about Ruth all along?"

"From what I'm told by my contact, who has also set up around-the-clock visual surveillance on both men the events of the past few months have been orchestrated by Mace, but chiefly to keep Pavlović where he can be seen. The incidents with Derek Mitchell and the girl, Madeleine, were unfortunate, but necessary – those are Mace's exact words in a communication to Pavlović just as the latter settled into his job on the Leman gas rig. My belief is that Mace had the whole thing planned in advance, and he only told Pavlović each move as needed. My suspicion is that Mace had Derek Mitchell's parents killed."

"How? Surely that happened before Pavlović reached British shores." Malcolm sat back in his chair and shivered as he gazed across the back wall to the beech trees beyond. "Are you cold? Would you prefer we went inside" Harry was in shirt sleeves, while Malcolm wore a woollen jumper.

Malcolm shook his head. "I'm fine, thank you." He cleared his throat before he continued. "You may remember that Oliver Mace prefers to play the long game. He would have had this whole series of events planned, and he would have set it up so that each of his `players' – Mitchell, Pavlović, and the girl – reacted in predictable ways. He needed Mitchell to be in the UK, and he needed Pavlović to follow him. The girl was probably an added complication, but in the end she was dispensable."

Harry contemplated Malcolm's words for a moment. "What does Oliver get out of this?"

"It's hard to say. He has always exhibited an unhealthy lust for power, and he enjoys provoking fear in others. He keeps his distance, and organises others to get their hands dirty on his behalf."

"And he organised for Pavlović's return to Croatia because he has further plans for him."

Malcolm nodded. "I imagine so. He needed Mitchell's wife as bait to draw Pavlović back home, so I can only assume he has further work for him."

"So long as it's not in the UK."

Malcolm smiled, the skin around his eyes crinkling. "That's one of the reasons I've put an alarm on my surveillance. If he heads anywhere near an airport or train station, then I need to know about it."

Harry sighed heavily, and then grabbed the wine bottle and topped up their glasses before sitting back and sipping his wine, his expression part grim, and part sulky. "I'd just like to be able to reassure Ruth," he said, more to himself than to Malcolm. "My greatest birthday gift to her would be to be able to tell her that she is absolutely safe living here .. with me."

"No-one can guarantee absolute safety to anyone else, Harry. It's the world we live in. It's ..."

".. unreliable. I know that more than most. I'd like to be able to provide a home for Ruth where she will never again have a reason to leave."

Malcolm understood what Harry was telling him, but sometimes words were not enough. Harry's greatest fear was the prospect that he may again lose Ruth, and Malcolm could not find the words to reassure his former section head; after all, neither man had the capacity to predict the future.

Harry looked up as a sudden strong breeze ruffled the leaves of the trees. He hoped he was witnessing the winds of change, and not an omen of further turmoil and upheaval.

* * *

It was close to midnight, and Harry and Malcolm were still up when Graham arrived home from work.

"You two are kicking up your heels," he observed as he stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, where both older men were sitting in armchairs. "How did the work go today?"

"Work?" Harry said with a frown.

"On the office. How much is left still to do?"

"I sent them home just after you left. There's only painting still to do -"

"And the bookshelves," added Malcolm.

Harry nodded. "I thought the three of us could finish it tomorrow."

Graham looked from one man to the other, trying to determine their level of sobriety. "Are you serious? That's a good day's work." Graham looked directly at Malcolm. "Are you aware of what this entails, Malcolm?"

"Of course. I painted the whole interior of my own home after my mother died last year. I'm very .. particular with a paint brush and roller."

"Right," Graham said, hoping they meant it. He looked warily from one to the other.

"We're not drunk, if that's what you mean," Harry said wearily. When had his son become a wowser? "We're just .."

"Tired," said Malcolm.

Harry nodded his agreement.

Graham turned from the room and made his way to the stairs. Tired? Those two sat over either a pot of coffee or a bottle of something alcoholic all day long, and they were _tired_? They should try a six hour shift at the café, where he spent all but thirty minutes on his feet, back and forth, answering inane questions and putting up with rudeness from customers who believed that it was his job to stand there and take it. He was ready for bed. Tomorrow he'd have to supervise a couple of aging borderline alcoholics while they pretended to know what they were doing with paint brushes, rollers, and pots of paint. How had his life come to this? He thought it about time he returned to his share house in Yarmouth.

* * *

Harry had just crawled under his duvet and turned out the light when his phone rang from where it sat on top of a book on his bedside table. He sat up and turned on the bedside lamp, irritated with whoever had decided it a good idea to talk to him at that hour. "What is it?" he barked, not bothering to check who was calling.

"Is this a bad time?" said a young male voice. "Am I interrupting something?"

Harry heard the suppressed laughter in the caller's voice, and resisting the urge to snap at him, he answered calmly. "Dimitri .. what can I do for you?"

"It's what I can do for you, mate."

"The last person to call me mate is interred in a shallow grave somewhere off the A2 just outside Peterborough," Harry replied, not altogether seriously.

"Can you talk?"

"Dimitri, are you asking me am I alone?"

"Yeah."

"I'm alone in my room, yes."

"Then what I heard on the grapevine isn't true?"

"My private life is my business."

"And how is the legendary Ms Evershed, and am I ever going to meet her?" Since he was no doubt in a country other than England, Dimitri appeared willing to push the boundaries.

"Not if I can help it," Harry replied. "Where are you? New Zealand?"

"If only. I'm in Zagreb."

"It's the middle of the night in Zagreb."

"It's only 1.15 am. I've been following Oliver Mace."

"Why?" asked Harry.

"Orders from above."

"Don't tell me God spoke to you."

Dimitri chuckled. "Not quite. Iain MacRae in London. He's my section head. I had to put on a suit and follow Mace to a club in the city centre. I was listening in on his conversation with a couple of members of the FSB, and when I heard .. what they were talking about I just thought you might be .. interested."

"Go on."

"The incident with the Russians back in 2011 .. do you remember?"

"Of course I bloody remember. Get on with it. I'm losing sleep here."

"Mace was the brains – for want of a better word – behind it. His plan, which he handed on to a Croatian agent called Toma -"

"Pavlović, yes, I know of him."

"He was meant to set it up so Gavrik killed his wife and then – hopefully - himself. The Croatians had a job for Sasha Gavrik – the son – but he was killed also."

"And? I don't see what business this is of mine, Dimitri."

"Oliver Mace's original plan was to ensure Ilya Gavrik believed that his son was actually your son. He assumed that Gavrik, in a fit of rage and jealousy, would kill his wife, and then you, and lastly, himself. It was meant to be the trifecta, but the operation went tits up."

"You could say that." Harry quickly mentally ran through what Dimitri had told him before he tried to determine what it was he wasn't telling him. "Are you saying that my life is in danger?"

"That's just it, Harry. He's not planning anything. Tonight I heard him tell the two FSB agents that he'd planned to have you killed, to make up for Ruth Evershed having escaped his clutches."

"So .. he knew all along."

"It appears that way, but the most interesting part was when I heard him say that an MI-6 agent by the name of Derek Mitchell reported to him – through Pavlović - that Ms Evershed had died less than two years after leaving London, and her death occurred while she was living in a small mountain village in Italy."

For a brief moment, Harry was stunned. "Did he say how she was meant to have died?"

"Yes. She was raped and beaten, and they couldn't get her to hospital in time."

Harry took a deep breath. "And did Mace happen to say when it was that Mitchell gave him this .. news?"

"He did. It was the day prior to Mitchell's death."

So it was after Ruth had met Mitchell in the coffee shop. Ruth would find that interesting indeed. "Just one more thing, Dimitri. Is there any chance that Mace knew you were there, listening to his conversation?"

"None at all. I sat behind him and recorded everything with one of those directional microphones which can pick up the sound of grass growing, while I pretended to have a deep and meaningful with one of the Slovenian agents who came across the border with me. Mace knows neither of us, and we made sure we were not seen."

They quickly ended the conversation, and Harry lay back against his pillow and sighed. He wanted to ring Ruth, but talking to her would have to wait until the following day. It was then that he was relieved that Ruth had thought to protect her identity as an author by refusing to do TV interviews, or to have her image displayed on the back cover of her novel. Perhaps, after all, she had had an inkling that _Vuk_ had still had his eye on her.


	18. Chapter 18

_**A/N: Sarah's Restaurant is fictional. Thanks so much to those of you who are still with this, and as always, thank you to reviewers.**_

* * *

" _This is the last time I'll be asking you to stay," Grace said, staring unseeing through the window to where the dark crept towards her cottage, a wolf stalking its prey._

" _Why? Are you leaving?"_

" _Perhaps." Grace turned to face him to see his face stricken by sadness. "I can't continue to .."_

" _I know, and I'm sorry. You already know what you mean to me."_

" _Then show me."_

 _He turned and left through the back door, where he again became one with the night. He was heading home to Thora, as he always would._

* * *

North Suffolk – three days later – Saturday:

Ruth had arrived just before two o'clock. At Graham's prompting Harry had met her as she stepped from her car. She had moved directly into his embrace, lifting her hands to cradle his face while she kissed him, and Harry had decided that he should listen more to his son and less to the fears which regularly disturbed his private thoughts.

Did she still care for him?

Was he too old for her?

How long would it be before she tired of him?

He had kissed her back with relish, and with each second that passed, his fears had gradually diminished. Ruth was happy to see him, and her car was packed with as many of her possessions as would fit. They had talked about it during their nightly phone calls. He had asked and she had been willing. Ruth was no longer visiting. She was staying. She had agreed to live with him ... permanently.

So once they were inside the house, and Harry had dropped her bags beside the kitchen table, he asked her to close her eyes while he led her to the office which overlooked the back garden. "I have a belated birthday gift for you," he'd said.

"I don't need a gift, Harry. Being with you is gift enough."

"I wanted to do this. I hope you like it," he'd added.

"This had better not be something weird, Harry. I'll never forgive you if this is -" and Harry opened the door and instructed her to open her eyes.

Ruth's eyes widened as she looked around the room. Where there had once been a chunky wooden desk which had dominated the room was now open floor space covered by a large Turkish rug, behind which the window provided a view over the back garden, now alive with new growth. Against the eastern wall a white melamine desk ran the length of the wall, above which ran shelving, also white. At one end of the desk sat Harry's desktop PC, with ample space at the window end for Ruth's laptop. Either side of the window and all along the wall opposite the desk were bookshelves. Ruth turned to see that part of one wall beside the doorway had been removed to create an alcove – once a large storage cupboard - in which more bookshelves curved around two armchairs in deep red fabric. For a moment Ruth looked around the room – the teal walls, the royal blue shelves, and the white shelves in the alcove – a warm and embracing space which she already loved. She walked around the room, running her fingers along the empty shelves, and along the spines of the books which Harry and Graham had quickly stacked in no particular order. "There's so much room," Ruth said, awed, "for all our books." She turned towards Harry, who was carefully watching her to gauge her reaction. She smiled into his eyes, and then, feeling a little embarrassed to be observed in a moment of childlike wonder, she turned back to the window, noticing for the first time that the blue and white striped curtains had been replaced by a stone coloured blind.

"What do you think?" Harry asked, worried that she had said so little.

"I'm .. speechless. It's beautiful, Harry. I love the colours."

"I can't take credit for that. The colour scheme was Graham's idea. I'm not good with colours."

"Where is Graham?"

"He's hiding in his room upstairs. He didn't want to get in the way."

"That's silly. He's part of the family." Ruth turned to examine the new doorway, and the area where a wall had been removed. "I hope the ceiling won't collapse."

"I had it done professionally, Ruth. They seemed to know what they were doing."

"`Seemed' is a word which doesn't fill me with confidence."

Suddenly Harry relaxed, and grasping one of Ruth's hands, he pulled her into his arms, where he held her tightly. It had been a little over two weeks since they had last seen one another, and although they had spoken on the phone at least once a day, it was not the same as being together. Harry felt Ruth's lips on his neck, and so he pressed his lips against her cheek, slowly moving towards her mouth. When he began to kiss her lips he felt her responding to him, arching her body to fit against his in that familiar way they had when they were preparing to make love. He couldn't allow them to go there – not yet – so very reluctantly he pulled away from her, still holding one of her hands in his. "Tea or coffee?" he asked, taking a deep breath in an attempt to control his breathing.

"Tea, I think. And get Graham downstairs. He doesn't have to hide himself away."

They had quickly moved from the office to the kitchen. Harry turned to her, his eyes not quite meeting hers. "I think he expected us to .."

"Head to the bedroom first?" Harry nodded, a small smile turning his lips. "That would have been insensitive of us."

"I suspect his worst nightmare ... is overhearing us having sex."

Ruth burst into laughter, her eyes twinkling. "Oh, the poor man. We mustn't leave him up there on his own."

"I suspect he's lying on his bed, listening to music through his headphones," Harry said, taking the teapot from the shelf, and then spooning in the tea leaves. "Would you like to ..?" He lifted his eyes to the ceiling, and Ruth immediately grasped his meaning. She quickly headed up the stairs to the back bedroom.

Ruth gently knocked on Graham's bedroom door, but hearing nothing from him, she knocked louder, calling his name. The door suddenly opened under her knuckles, and Graham appeared barefoot, dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt, his headphones draped like a collar around his neck. "Ruth. It's good you're here at last. Dad's been .. he's missed you. I've missed you." He stood between the door and the door frame, one hand on each, and then he stepped towards her and drew her into a quick, one-armed hug. Rather cautiously, Ruth tucked her arms around his narrow waist, and returned the hug, gently patting his back with one hand.

"Harry's making tea," Ruth said, once they had drawn apart, "and you're invited."

"Are you sure?"

"We're sure." Graham looked a little uncomfortable, so Ruth turned from the door as if to leave. "Please join us downstairs," she said before she hurried back the way she'd come. She wanted to tell him that she and Harry were not about to head to the bedroom, but she didn't know how best to convey that message.

* * *

"I can't stay long," Graham said, sitting at the table in the chair beside Ruth. "I have to pick up something in Yarmouth, and I have an appointment at three-thirty for another job."

"A job?" Harry sat up, surprised and very interested

"I hadn't wanted to tell you, in case it doesn't work out, but this could be just what I've been looking for. If I get this job – it's an apprenticeship at Sarah's Restaurant – then I can get into a course at the Great Yarmouth College. Today is just a preliminary chat with the head chef, Tony. He's a friend of a friend, which is how I got the interview." Graham shrugged, as if embarrassed.

"That's wonderful, Graham," Ruth said, reaching across to grasp his forearm.

Harry, on the other hand, looked more than a little miffed. "You hadn't said a thing." .

"I don't know what it means, Dad." Graham sounded irritated. "He might just be checking me out for some job further down the track. It might not mean anything, but I have to at least try."

While Graham spoke Ruth had been trying to gain eye contact with Harry, and when she did – only for a moment – she frowned at him, hoping to convey her suggestion that he tread carefully.

Only ten minutes later Graham left, saying he'd be home some time after five, "in time to cook dinner," he had added with a grin. "That way you two can share some .. private time," he added.

"Cheeky sod," Harry said once Graham had driven off. "you know what he was saying, don't you?"

"Of course I do," Ruth replies. "He clearly has no understanding of our level of self control."

"Speak for yourself, Ruth. I have only minimal self control where you are concerned." His eyes smoldered as he watched her across the table.

"I think we should go for a walk," Ruth said suddenly, standing and heading upstairs with one of her bags. Harry followed with two more of her bags. He had just reached the first landing when he heard her cries of approval. "Harry .. this is wonderful," she called, and he smiled as he negotiated the remainder of the stairs. She was standing waiting for him in the bedroom doorway, having opened the door to reveal the redecorating. When he reached her side he dropped her bags just inside the door and then submitted to her hugs and kisses. "The bedroom looks beautiful," she said, once she'd let him go. "I love it. Don't tell me this was also Graham's idea. How did he know I loved blue?"

Harry nodded. "I'd been thinking about it, especially since I wanted you to live here .. with me, but it was Graham who got things moving."

They both turned to survey the room, with it's soft sky blue walls, new duvet cover and matching pillow cases, and fresh white paint on the woodwork. "I'm relieved you like it," Harry added, giving her shoulder a squeeze.

* * *

"You'll miss him when he gets this fancy job."

They had just stepped on to the beach, and for a change, headed south rather than north. Harry had both hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, while Ruth slid her hand into the crook of Harry's elbow. If he slowed his stride to match hers, they were able to comfortably walk side by side.

"No," he said, "I won't. The order of things demands that children leave their parents and make their own way in the world. With you now here with me it's high time he moved on."

Ruth knew he was right, and so she wasn't about to argue. "How did you manage to get so close to him, Harry? When I was working on the Grid the story I heard was that your son wouldn't speak to you."

"I had to keep my mouth shut and exercise tolerance and persistence. Persistence I can handle, but I'm not a terribly tolerant man." Ruth glanced up at him to see him staring into the distance, his jaw set. "And I had to hold my tongue, and resist the urge to give him advice he didn't want or need. It was so much easier once he gave up the drugs, but I still had to put up with a lot of .. anger and blaming from him. It didn't happen overnight. The transition was slow and sometimes rather painful. There were times when he stormed off in his car back to Great Yarmouth, but he always returned the next day. I had to accept that, and not hold it against him."

Suddenly Harry stopped walking and turned towards her. "Around four months ago – a couple of weeks after Christmas - he pointed out that I had been single for some time, and that this was perhaps due to a .. fundamental flaw in my character. It was then that I told him about you – not much, but just enough to let him know that I have a beating heart, and not one made of stone. I believe that this was the .. turning point in our relationship as father and son." Harry waited, but Ruth didn't comment. He glanced down at her, and she appeared to be thinking, staring off into the distance, perhaps reliving that awful day when they each watched as the other diminished into the distance, until they were out of sight, perhaps forever. "My theory is that for the first time in his adult life he saw me as someone with normal human feelings. He could see that I'd been hurt, and I had genuine regrets about the way things had turned out."

"He certainly seems to care for you, Harry."

"Yes, and I haven't always been an easy person for others to care about."

Ruth had turned to face him, and then she nodded, knowing that was true. He hadn't been an easy man to love. "Perhaps he has felt responsible for ensuring you were not left alone to mope."

Harry turned and continued walking, so Ruth followed. "I imagine that's true," he said. "Given the timing of this .. job interview, or whatever it is, he now sees that he no longer has to stick around to keep an eye on me. I now have you."

"Yes, Harry. You now have me .. all of me." Ruth wasn't sure he had heard her, but she was sure he understood anyway.

Little was said as they approached the headland and the rocks. The tide was on its way in, and the noise level had increased, as the water surged and washed over the rocks, and then retreated with a sigh, and the sea birds gathered overhead, screeching and crying. Harry and Ruth stood for a long moment, watching the movement of the tide, and the sweeping of the birds towards the land, and then out to sea. "We should head this way more often," she said, looking up at him, and he turned to her and nodded.

"Have dinner with me," Harry said, his voice loud enough to be heard over the clamour of the sea and the birds. Despite it being late in the afternoon, the wind had not yet picked up.

Ruth drew her eyebrows together in confusion. "But we'll be having dinner together tonight, and every night."

He turned to face her, hands still pushed into his pockets, but he leaned a little closer, so he didn't have to shout to be heard. "I mean have dinner with me, Ruth. Out. We never had that second dinner, and I've missed it. I've missed it for almost seven years. I'd like -"

"Yes," she said quickly, reaching up to cup Harry's face between her hands as she placed a soft kiss on his lips. He took his hands from his pockets and wrapped his arms around her, pulling against his body. The kiss continued. When they pulled away from one another their eyes still held the other's. "Yes," Ruth said again, "I'd love to have dinner .. with you. Just the two of us."

Harry grasped Ruth's hand in his and they turned and headed back the way they had come. "Will you trust me to choose the restaurant?" he said after they had walked for a few minutes.

"I did last time, so yes."

Harry smiled as he walked, entwining his fingers with hers.


	19. Chapter 19

_The sand was hard beneath my feet, and the sea angry. There you were, contemplating the horizon, as you had on so many other mild mornings._

" _I didn't expect to see you again," you said, leaning towards me, hoping for one last kiss._

" _Do you care?" I spat the words at you, aiming to hurt._

" _Of course I care. I just can't be what you want me to be."_

" _I know that."_

 _You kissed me while I stood there with my eyes open, barely moving my lips. As you walked up the beach to your car you didn't look back to see the tears streaming down my face._

* * *

Harry and Ruth had been back from their walk for less than half an hour when Graham arrived home. Harry noticed that he kept his jacket closed, one arm across the front of his body, and his face wore a soft smile – a rare thing for Graham.

"Ruth?" Graham said, and she turned from the bench where she and Harry had been chopping vegetables for dinner, her expression wary. "I have your birthday gift – from me – here, under my jacket.

It was then that Ruth noticed Graham's jacket moving. "It's alive."

"I hope so," he said, "otherwise I'll have some explaining to do."

Once he was within touching distance of Ruth the lump moved and made a high-pitched squeaky sound. Graham watched Ruth's face, and noticed her eyes widen as she recognised the sound. He then very carefully opened his jacket and grabbed the grey furry animal before he dropped it. One handed, he handed it to Ruth, who grasped it in both her hands, and then held it under her chin, stoking it with her fingertips. "He's so beautiful," she said, her eyes alive and glistening. Harry still stood close behind her.

"She's yours," Graham said, "if you want her."

"I should call her Fluffy," Ruth said with a short laugh, "or Misty."

"Or Oyster," Harry suggested, and Ruth looked up at him and wrinkled her nose.

"Or Mouse," Graham suggested.

"That could confuse her," Ruth replied., "calling a kitten Mouse." Harry pulled out a chair for Ruth and so she sat down, and held the kitten on her lap. "We haven't a bed for her, or a pet carrier," she said.

"I have all that in the car," Graham replied. "I also have some food for her."

Graham returned to his car and brought the kitten's things inside for Ruth – a pet carrier, a pet bed, and some cans of kitten food and special kitten milk. "I'll reimburse you for the supplies," Ruth said, looking up from stroking the kitten, who had enjoyed the attention so much that she had fallen asleep.

"It's all right, Ruth," Harry said quietly. "I paid for the supplies."

Of course he had. Ruth had a brief moment of irritation, and where seven years ago she would have felt controlled by Harry's generosity, the person she had become recognised that she was reacting from habit. Harry cared about her, and she wasn't about to reprimand him for that. "Do you have any more news?" she said, looking across the kitchen to where Graham had removed his jacket, washed his hands, and then taken over dinner preparations from Harry, who had taken a seat next to her.

"News? What kind of news?" Graham replied, turning towards Ruth.

"Your interview. How did it go?"

Again Graham turned, looking from Ruth to Harry, and then back again, before a slow grin changed his features. "He wants me to try out in the kitchen, beginning in three weeks."

"That's wonderful," Ruth said.

"Congratulations," Harry said.

Graham nodded his acknowledgement, and then returned to the cutting board and the vegetables. "It's only a try out," he said. "It might not lead anywhere."

"It's a good start," said Ruth.

"We'll need you to kitten sit next week, Graham," Harry continued. "I'm taking Ruth to dinner."

"I can only do Monday or Tuesday. The rest of the week I'm working."

"Tuesday it is, then."

"And you'll need to have named the kitten by then, Ruth, otherwise I'll have to keep calling her `Cat'."

Ruth lifted her eyes to Graham. He'd articulated her own thoughts. "I've been trying to think of a suitable Greek name, but they're all too long, or .. elaborate. I think Misty might be a more apt name for her." She turned to where Harry was watching her fingers move through the kitten's fur. "What do you think?"

"I don't care, Ruth. I think Misty is a fine name."

"Not too .. wishy-washy?"

"I don't think the kitten will mind. She appears to already be in love with you, and I can't blame her for that."

* * *

6 days later – Tuesday evening:

"Where are you taking Ruth for dinner?" Graham asked. He was sitting on the sofa in the living room, the TV turned to a news channel, with the sound muted. Misty was curled up in a ball on his lap.

"Two villages over," Harry said. "It's a surprise for Ruth. I haven't told her where we're having dinner. It's called _Honey's_. It was recommended to me by the guy who knocked down the wall in the office."

"I'll get out of your hair the minute you arrive home," Graham added, a slight smile on his lips.

"I think Ruth expects you to be staying the night."

"No chance. I don't want to have to sleep wearing my head phones."

Harry chose to ignore his son's comment. "We won't be late. It's only our second dinner date ever."

"That's appalling."

"I know it is. I -"

Harry was saved from having to complete his thought when Ruth entered the living room dressed in a fitting dress of deep scarlet. He raked his eyes over her body, and when his eyes met her own he saw understanding and acceptance. Ruth was slowly learning to accept his open appreciation of her.

* * *

 _Honey's_ was a small restaurant within the shell of what was once an old church which had been gutted by fire in 1986. Tim and Angela Honey had bought the property in the mid 1990's, creating a rustic and atmospheric venue using wooden beams, rough stone for the walls, and the original slate floor. On the tables were tablecloths in forest green and brick red. The room felt warm and homely.

"What do you think?" Harry asked once they were seated at a table for two against one wall.

"It's lovely, Harry," Ruth replied, looking around the room. The room was around two thirds full. "Have you been here before?"

"No. It was recommended to me."

Harry couldn't take his eyes from her. He caught a hint of nervousness from her, and he was reminded of when they had shared that one and only dinner. He hoped she wasn't still thinking of him as her boss, especially since he had plans for when they got home.

"Graham is determined to drive back to Great Yarmouth once we arrive home."

Ruth smiled into his eyes, her understanding clear.

Once they had given their order, they sat in silence for some moments. "I don't think Misty needs babysitting," Ruth said at last.

"I know, but Graham is heavily invested in us staying together."

Ruth's light laugh was lilting and musical. "I'm not sure why that is," she said.

Harry watched her while she glanced up at him and then down again, her hands fidgeting with her napkin. "Graham has felt .. an outsider in his own family," he continued, feeling the need to explain his family to Ruth. "I can only surmise that he views you and me as his new parents. I think .. I _know_ that his mother's and my divorce traumatised him, and his response to that was to self-medicate for years. Now he's clean he needs a stable home life. His mother has had at least three further partners – and those are only the ones I know about – so she hardly represents what he's been craving since he was a small child. I'm not saying she's a bad mother. On the contrary, she's done a magnificent job with them, often under very difficult circumstances. Graham only saw me on occasional weekends, and then I was usually distracted and often irritable. I wasn't used to having to deal with him on my own." Harry quickly looked across the table to where Ruth was gazing at him intensely. "What is it?" he asked.

"You've never talked like this to me before, Harry. I've never seen your situation as a divorced father through your eyes."

"I'd always been led to feeling ashamed of .. my poor fathering skills. To have another opportunity with Graham is .."

".. a gift, Harry, and one you mustn't squander."

"I have no intention of wasting it," he replied.

"So that makes Misty his … little half-sister?" The dancing of Ruth's eyes told Harry that her comment was not terribly serious.

"Perhaps that's taking things a little too far, Ruth."

At that moment their entrees were served, and so for the time their conversation was halted. The waiter brought their wine to the table, and poured a half glass for each of them. When Ruth lifted her eyebrows at Harry's half glass, he lay his fork on the plate and rested his forearms on the edge of the table. "I'm quite able to curb my drinking, Ruth. It's just that I like to drink. Tonight, however, I'm driving so .. I'm being sensible."

"I didn't say a thing."

"You didn't have to."

After their entrees and main course, they sat over another bottle of wine, and again Harry took his time, sipping his wine slowly, and taking an occasional sip of water. Ruth thought she had never seen him so quiet and restrained. When she commented on it, he pursed his lips and looked around the room. "Some people have left already," he said, "and I hadn't noticed."

"That's because my company is so .."

"Distracting."

Again, Ruth laughed her gentle, throaty laugh. "I thought you were the one distracting me," she said. "I notice that like the last dinner we shared, you've chosen to expose your throat to my gaze."

"Then I have the better deal, Ruth. I'm enjoying your cleavage. It's very .. promising."

"Then let's hope Graham leaves as soon as we arrive home."

Ruth considered that the look Harry returned to her across the table could have set the building on fire for a second time. She broke eye contact and lifted her gaze to where broad oak beams spanned the width of the building, and others formed a V-shape on which rested the roof. "The heating bill for this place must be astronomical," she said.

"Now you're changing the subject, Ruth."

Ruth allowed herself a small sigh before she spoke her mind. "I'd really like to go home," she said.

"You miss your kitten?"

"Yes, but I'm also aware that Graham has work tomorrow. He told me he was starting at eleven in the morning."

"And there's no other reason?"

"There is, but I'm embarrassed to admit to it."

"You're tired?" Ruth shook her head. "You're bored?" Again she shook her head, but added a slight smile. "You .. want to go to bed with me?" When her smile broadened, Harry placed his wine glass, still half full, on the table. What were they waiting for?

* * *

Their drive home only took a little over fifteen minutes, so that by the time Harry turned off the engine and killed the lights, it had only just gone ten-thirty. They turned to one another in the dark, and Ruth reached out to place her hand on Harry's thigh. His response was immediate. He leaned across and slid his right hand around her waist, gently drawing her closer. The kiss was deep and passionate and within seconds they were each lost inside it. They drew apart for no more than two or three seconds before they kissed again. This time Harry did something he'd wanted to do all evening; he slid his hand inside the top of Ruth's dress and then inside her bra, running his fingertips over and around her nipple. Ruth went with the kiss, enjoying it fully. She ran her fingertips from underneath his ear, down his neck and to his throat, knowing she could explore further, but aware that this was not the time or the place.

Reluctantly Harry pulled away from her and leaned back in his seat. "We should have waited to do that," he said huskily.

They sat in the dark for another few minutes until Harry announced that he was in a fit state to enter the house. Inside, Graham was lying on the sofa in the living room, watching a movie, Misty curled up on his stomach, her eyes closed. He looked up when he heard them enter the room, and then he sat up so that Misty slid off his stomach and onto the sofa. She got to her feet and yawned, her open mouth almost as big as her head. Ruth crossed the floor and picked up her kitten, nursing her in the crook of her arm while she scratched the kitten's fat belly.

"I'd better go," Graham said, standing and stretching. "I've enjoyed Misty's company, although she's not one for conversation."

"Stay and have a coffee with us," Ruth said, although when she glanced at Harry, he was wearing a disapproving frown.

"No chance, but thanks. You don't need me hovering, and I have to begin early tomorrow, so my bed beckons."

Ruth found herself about to offer Graham a bed for the night, but then she remembered the kisses she and Harry had shared in the car, and she left the offer unspoken.

* * *

Harry accompanied Graham to the door while Ruth boiled the kettle and made a pot of tea. It was much too early to be heading to bed, even with sex being on the agenda.

"Anyone would think you were dreading going to bed with me," Harry said as he entered the living area and saw the pot of tea and two mugs on the table.

"I'm just savouring the moments of .. anticipation," Ruth replied. "I think it makes .. what come after .. so much sweeter."

"Where's Misty?" Harry asked, looking around the room.

"I put her back on the sofa. She likes it in there, and it's warmer."

They drank their tea in near silence, each hyper-aware of the other. It was Harry who spoke first. "Graham told me that my daughter is due back in the UK in six weeks."

"That's wonderful, Harry. How long is it since you've seen her?"

"Not since I moved here. Over six months."

"You must miss her."

"I do, but I'm used to not seeing her. She's just turned thirty-three, so she's hardly my little girl any more."

"We should invite her to stay for a few days." Harry smiled across the table at her. "What? Why are you smiling?"

"It's you, Ruth. I hadn't expected you to be so .. accepting of my family."

"Why not?"

"It's just that when we knew one another seven years ago, I dared not talk to you about my children, especially my difficult relationships with them both, because I was afraid that would .."

"Would what?"

"Put you off me."

"Maybe you're right. Back then I would have felt jealous that you had children, and they were so important to you. Now things are … different. _I'm_ different. _We're_ different. Whether I like it or not your children are part of you. They come as part of the Harry package."

"And here was I thinking that my package was something else altogether."

"Speaking of which .." and Ruth pushed her mug away from her and got to her feet. She walked around to Harry's side of the table and reached down to kiss him, the fingers of one hand feathering across the skin of his throat, so that he shuddered beneath her.

"I think we should go to bed now," he said against her mouth.

* * *

By the time Ruth made it to the bedroom, Harry was sitting up in bed with a book, reading glasses perched on his nose. "If you think the middle-aged look is going to put me off, you're wrong," she said. "My skin is still burning from those kisses we shared in the car." She threw off her dressing gown and climbed into bed, shifting across the mattress until she was lying close to him. She was relieved to see him place his book and reading glasses on the bedside table, so that when he turned back to her his hands were free.

They exchanged long kisses full of yearning, quickly disposing of the clothing they'd worn to bed. Few words were exchanged, as no words were necessary. When at last Harry asked, "Now?" Ruth replied with a nod.

They made love slowly at first, time not being important. When they finished it was noisy and frantic and they each gasped throatily, calling out the name of the other. Sleep quickly followed, and as they settled under the duvet, Ruth turned her back to Harry, who reached out from behind her to rest his hand on her naked hip.

When Harry's phone rang from his bedside table it felt like only a few minutes had passed rather than several hours. "Christ," he said, the tone of his voice conveying his irritability. "Who rings me at .." and after looking at the bedside clock, "fucking four o'clock in the morning? _Yes_?" he barked into the phone.

While Harry acknowledged his identity before listening to his caller, he sat up in bed, taking care to not disturb Ruth, who appeared to still be sleeping. As the call continued, he very carefully climbed out of bed, slid his dressing gown over his naked body, and pushed his feet into his slippers. Then he left the bedroom.

When, almost ten minutes later, he returned to the bedroom, his call had ended and Ruth had turned on the lamp on her side of the bed, and was sitting up in bed, having retrieved her pyjamas from the floor and put them back on. Seeing Harry's shocked expression, her heart rate immediately increased, and her mind took off in several different directions. "What is it?" she asked, at the same time acknowledging that she really didn't want to know.

"That was a police sergeant from Great Yarmouth," he said, his voice robotic, his forehead creased in a frown of puzzlement. "He was trying to tell me that my son has been killed in a car accident."


	20. Chapter 20

**_A/N : Thank you again to readers, followers, reviewers. This is the 4th last chapter._**

* * *

 _Grace stood at the bus stop as the bus drove away, at her feet her battered suitcase which held most of what she owned. She had done it. She had escaped from her old life (which had once been her new life) and here she was in Essex. It was not and never had been her idea of paradise, but from the top of the hill behind her uncle's farmhouse could be had a clear view of the sea, and surely that would make her sacrifice worth it._

 _When she heard the sound of grinding gears she looked up to see a dilapidated Bedford lorry trundling along the lane towards her. She remembered from when she'd been in her teens that the vehicle had once been red, but in the autumn of 1944 the paint had faded to a dull brown. Grace smiled up at her Uncle Frank perched behind the wheel._

 _Goodbye factory, hello farm. Her new life had begun._

* * *

Despite her mind forming several different questions which required answers, Ruth could think of nothing to say to that. Instead, she reached out her hand to Harry, and he took it, grasping it tightly. Inside herself, she felt numb.

Harry was quiet, which worried Ruth. That was not at all like him. She was used to him shouting and raging, and freely emoting when something in his life turned out badly. "What did they tell you?" she asked after a while.

"Not very much. They tried sending someone here to tell me in person, but that car got lost, ending up in a ditch on the edge of the airfield, and they had to call for help, so .." Harry appeared to lose the thread of his story. "What was it you asked?" he said, turning to Ruth.

"What did the police sergeant tell you .. about Graham?"

"They said .. that a resident on the outskirts of Hayfield heard the crash, and was first on the scene, but he was .. already dead."

"Hayfield? That's not between here and Yarmouth. Isn't it on one of those back lanes to Norwich? What was he doing there?"

"I've no idea, but the accident happened at around two-thirty, and yet Graham would have made it home by eleven-thirty, so why would he go out again?"

"Maybe he wanted us to think he was going straight home," Ruth said. "Maybe he has a married lover."

Harry was mentally reviewing what the police sergeant had told him. "And he said that the driver of Graham's car – and it was Graham's car – had no ID on him, which I thought strange. The only ID was what was in the glove box – road tax and his insurance details."

"So," Ruth continued, her mind grasping the threads which Harry, in his distressed state, had overlooked, "how can they be sure it's him?"

"It's his car, Ruth, and the description they gave me fitted him. He was wearing blue jeans and a denim shirt, although his face was .. badly damaged." Harry's face paled even more.

Ruth was still not convinced. "So how were the police were able to trace you?"

"They interviewed him last month, remember? It was at the time Maddie and Derek Mitchell died. He gave my name and number as his next of kin." Harry turned to look at her. "Why wouldn't he have been carrying a wallet or his phone?"

Ruth took her hand from Harry's, and folded her hands on the duvet. He had not seen her look of determination, the same approach she used when she was problem-solving at work. "He had his phone in his shirt pocket when he left here, and he always carried his wallet in his back pocket." She looked hard at Harry, noticing that through the gap in the front of his dressing gown that he was naked underneath. She quickly looked away, her mind racing ahead of her. "Harry," she said after a half minute or so, "have you tried ringing Graham's phone?"

"Of course not. Why would I?" And then Harry's expression changed from dull resignation to hope. "You're suggesting that while it may have been Graham's car, it was not Graham driving?" Ruth nodded, and so Harry stuffed his hand into the pocket of his dressing gown, and drew out his phone, which he then handed to Ruth. "Would you, Ruth? I don't think I could bear it were he to not answer."

As she scrolled through the contacts list on Harry's phone, Ruth's hands were trembling. She pressed the name and then held the phone to her ear, willing Graham to answer. She could feel Harry's eyes boring into her, but she couldn't look at him. She counted the number of times the phone rang – four times, six, seven, eight, and then she heard the slight click as someone answered. "Dad?" a sleepy voice said, "what's wrong? It's half way through the bloody night, and I have to -" which was when Ruth handed the phone to Harry, her smile wide.

"I'll make us some tea," she said, getting out of bed and quickly gathering her dressing gown and slippers, before she left the room to go downstairs.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later the tea was made, but there was no sign of Harry. Ruth waited a few minutes more before slowly climbing the stairs, listening for signs that Harry was still on the phone to Graham. She heard nothing at all until she was just outside their bedroom door, and then she waited, not wanting to enter the room while Harry was in such a state. He would need privacy, even from her. She heard another heaving sob from the depth of Harry's lungs, and so she remained standing silently in the hallway.

Eventually she heard him blowing his nose and coughing, so giving him time to compose and then tidy himself, she quietly entered the bedroom. He was still sitting on the bed dressed in only his bathrobe, leaning against his pillows. She hurried to her side of the bed and climbed up to sit beside him. He turned to watch her.

"You look exhausted," she said.

He nodded. "I'm afraid I had a bit of a cry." His voice was husky and his eyes reddened.

"That's good."

"It is?"

"Yes. Take it from me, there's nothing like a good cry to sort you out."

"I don't know what happened to me; I just lost it."

"You thought your son had died. I'd say that's reason enough."

He turned to Ruth and smiled; it was a smile of relief, a smile of gratitude. He reached out with his hand and she took it, placing a soft kiss on his palm, and then held his hand in both of hers.

"I've made tea," Ruth said quietly.

"Of course you have. Would you mind very much were I to have a whiskey?"

* * *

While waiting for the kettle to boil Ruth had turned the gas fire on to full, so they sat close to one another on the sofa in the living room, the pot of tea and one mug, plus Harry's glass of whiskey on the coffee table in front of them. To accommodate their need to sit close to one another Misty had been moved to one end of the sofa. Ruth had run a finger through her fur, Misty had stretched, flexed her claws, and then promptly gone back to sleep.

"Shouldn't you ring the police?" Ruth asked after some minutes.

"I already have. They now have to identify the body of an unknown man. I asked Graham about his car, and he looked out his bedroom window to see that it had gone. He still had the car keys in the pocket of his jeans, so it appears it was stolen."

"How did he react when you let him know the police had told you he was dead?"

"He was still half asleep, so I don't think it had fully sunk in." Harry took another sip of whiskey, and then placed the glass back on the table. "That few minutes was some of the worst of my life, Ruth. I've been so afraid of losing you all over again that I've overlooked a greater probability – that my son could be taken from me at any moment. I couldn't get past him having had so many close calls with death while he was using, and then now he is on the mend he dies so senselessly in a car accident. It would have been such a terrible irony .. and a waste." Ruth slid even closer to Harry and he reached out and pulled her against him, keeping his arm around her shoulders. "I'm so tired, but I'm not sure if I'll be able to sleep."

"I think we should at least try."

* * *

It was just after nine in the morning when they were woken by the ringing of Harry's phone. He rolled away from the warm comfort of Ruth's body to grab the phone. "Pearce," he said without checking the phone's display. "Oh, hello Graham," Harry said sleepily, lifting his body so that he could rest his back against his pillows. He turned to see Ruth's eyes on him.

Ruth watched while Harry listened. He said little, and Ruth could hear Graham's voice through the phone's speaker, although she was unable to distinguish his words. Several minutes later Harry said goodbye and hung up. Ruth lifted her eyebrows in an unspoken question.

"I have some ideas forming, and I need to run them by you, Ruth. How about we have breakfast and then take a walk along the beach?"

* * *

After a leisurely breakfast they tidied the kitchen, rugged up and then headed to the beach. By the time they stepped onto the sand and turned southwards the sun was almost visible through thick cloud cover. The air was cold, chilled even further by a brisk breeze off the sea which flicked the ends of Ruth's hair, so that she had to continually pull it away from the corners of her mouth. She put her head down and concentrated on walking, and keeping pace with Harry's stride. Once they had negotiated a large patch of stones exposed by the relentless tide Harry was ready to talk.

"Graham's car is a write off," he began, "and his insurance policy doesn't cover theft."

"So he can't get to work?"

"He can walk to his current work, but when he begins at Sarah's he'll need a car."

Harry grasped Ruth's hand, and so they strode along the hard sand hand in hand. Whenever Harry walked too fast for her, Ruth was able to rein him in by pulling on his hand. It was an effective system.

"You're planning to help him, aren't you?" Ruth asked after a while. She looked up to see Harry watching her.

"Do you think I should?"

"He might not like it, but .. you need to suggest it to him, and carefully."

Again they walked for a time while Harry considered his options. He didn't need Ruth's permission for him to help his son, but he would like her approval and her support. The longer he thought about it, the better his idea seemed .. to him. He couldn't imagine what Graham's response would be. No doubt his son would tell him to get lost and stop interfering in his life.

"You want to buy him a car, don't you?" Ruth said at last, her stress level rising with every minute which passed in which Harry remained silent. At least while he was speaking she had some idea of what was going on in his mind.

"I thought I might, only this time I'll get him something newer than that car he was driving. Despite his sticky end, the guy who stole it did Graham a favour."

"That young man was someone's son, Harry. He did a stupid thing, but he was still loved by someone out there."

"I know."

"I'd like to help you with the car. Paying for it, I mean."

"No, Ruth -"

"Harry ..."

"There's something else, and if you want to, you can help with that. I might .. need your help with that."

So Harry shared his thoughts with Ruth, the what, when and the how. When he'd finished speaking he turned to Ruth, but she was staring out to sea, where it was clearly raining. After some time she turned back to him and nodded. "All right," she said. "I'll help you with that."

* * *

With Graham at work and Ruth occupied with writing, Harry took his laptop into the living room, spending long hours on the internet. In the background the TV was muted and tuned to a sporting channel, but he barely looked up to check scores. He sent online messages, and made numerous phone calls, and so by Sunday evening he had a plan, which he then presented to Ruth.

"I'm fine with those options," she said, "but it's Graham you have to convince. Have you spoken to him?"

"Not since Thursday afternoon."

Their conversation was interrupted by the ringtone of Ruth's phone. She picked it up and answered in her usual way. "Emma Ruth speaking." Then she listened to her caller, after which she agreed to what it was he suggested. When the call ended she put down her phone and looked across the table to where Harry sat with one eyebrow raised. "That was your son," she said. "He has asked to meet me tomorrow morning in Yarmouth, and he wants me to go alone."

Harry's eyes narrowed at this news. "Did he say why?"

"Why he wants me there alone, or why he wants to meet me?"

"Both. It sounds like a .. strange request, Ruth."

"I imagine he has something he wants to discuss with someone who is not one of his parents."

"Mmm," Harry replied, almost a growl.

Ruth thought he did not seem well pleased, so she moved from a chair across the table from Harry to the chair beside him, and then reached out to cover his hand with her own. "I don't think it's meant as a slight against you," she said carefully.

"I know."

"There are some things which young men have difficulty discussing with their fathers."

"You're talking about sex, aren't you?"

"I have no idea, but there are times when a man's father is not the right person to be talking to. And I think the very last person to whom Graham would want talk about sex would be me."

Harry drew his eyebrows together and watched her closely. "Do you think he may have met someone? A woman?"

"He didn't say, Harry, but it's a possibility." Ruth rose from the table and gathered their dinner plates and cutlery, quickly scraping the dregs of their food into the sink, rinsing them, and then stacking the dishwasher. She returned to the chair next to Harry and again grasped his hand. "I've been thinking … and you can say no to this if you like. I'll not be offended, it's just that Graham and I have no real history, and so he's not likely to bark at me were I the one to suggest ..."

"What I was suggesting." Harry finished her sentence, and smiled. "I've been dreading talking to him. You know what I'm like, Ruth. If he objects I'll only shout at him, accusing him of being obstructive .. difficult, ungrateful, short-sighted -"

"- stubborn, rude, paranoid, _really_ annoying … just like you."

Harry twisted his mouth. The person he was seven years ago would have either shouted at her or walked away from her in disgust. The person he had become – and was still becoming – knew Ruth was right. He gave her a slight nod.

Ruth continued. "Have you decided on anything yet?"

"There are several options for each. I can print them out if you like."

"That would be a good idea." Ruth squeezed his hand and watched him, waiting for the right moment to make her suggestion. "What if you drive into Yarmouth with me tomorrow, and while I'm meeting Graham you can … check out the things you've chosen. Then .. should he be fine about it, perhaps the three of us could go shopping."

"And if he's not fine about it?"

"Then you and I meet and have lunch somewhere, hoping Graham will change his mind."

Harry's face broke into a smile and he reached across to Ruth and kissed her on the mouth. "That is one of the many reasons I love you."

"What is?"

"You talk sense."

"Of course I do, Harry. I always have."


	21. Chapter 21

_The view from on top of the hill which rose behind the farmhouse was not breathtaking, nor was it beautiful. In Grace's eyes Essex had never been beautiful. The view took in the Blackwater and the two islands, Northey and Osea. She would have preferred the open sea, but as she often told herself, beggars could not be choosers, and while she was no beggar, nor was she free to choose. She lived with Uncle Frank and Auntie Maisie on their farm, and during the day she worked as their farm hand. Her cousin Reg had died in the war, and she had stepped into his shoes._

 _It was not the life she'd planned for herself, but with each day that passed that plan faded, until it was little more than scratch marks in the sand, washed smooth by the tide._

* * *

Great Yarmouth – next morning – 10.58 am:

Graham had asked that they meet at the very same coffee shop where Ruth had lain in wait for Derek Mitchell. Was it only just under four weeks ago? Ruth didn't mind at all, after all she had gone there willingly, effectively entrapping the man. She felt able to view the shop as the site of her most recent exercise in the field, and perhaps her most successful, notwithstanding the unfortunate murder of Mitchell, which may have been inevitable.

Graham ordered lattes for them both and a selection of Danish pastries. "I'm always hungry," he explained, when Ruth's eyes took in the food on the table in front of them.

"You'll have to eat the lot yourself, then," she said. "I only just ate breakfast."

They spent a few minutes catching up on the events of the last few days – especially since Graham's car had been stolen, and for several awful minutes, Harry had believed his son to be dead.

"I slept through the whole thing," Graham explained to Ruth, "so when Dad rang me I was mainly irritated by being woken during the night."

"I've never seen him like that. We lost a number of our operatives during the time I worked on your father's team, and while he was shocked and saddened by their loss, he had to think of the team, and keep everyone together and focussed. He never seemed to take time out for himself, so when he believed you'd died, it was as if someone had extinguished the light inside him."

Graham had no response to that. He was shocked, and even a little pleased by his father's apparent grief. There was still a small part of him that wanted to hurt Harry, but mostly he was able to keep that part in check.

"You have something to discuss with me?" Ruth asked at last.

Graham nodded. "I suppose I'm searching for wise counsel, and you're not so close to me that you'd be invested in my decision regarding this .. issue." He looked down at his latte, and turned the glass around, just to occupy his hands. "This is about a woman." Ruth nodded and smiled. "But it's complicated. She's married."

Ruth's eyes widened as she remembered what she'd said to Harry the night they'd believed Graham had died. "I thought it might be."

"Does Dad know what you suspect?"

"I .. I have no idea, but he may. He was a little miffed that you hadn't wanted to confide in him, but I tried to explain to him why you might feel that way."

"Did he understand?"

"I think so. In a way. Tell me about this woman, Graham."

"Like I said, she's married, but not happily. They got married very young. She's twenty-eight, and she's been married for ten years."

"Children?"

"No."

Ruth nodded, filing away the information. "How did you meet?"

"She's an event manager, and she organised several events at the café where I work. We hit it off straight away."

"How long have you known her?"

"Nearly six months."

"Six months .. but you were sleeping with that girl who got killed."

Graham looked down to where he was drawing concentric circles on the tabletop with his finger. "At the time I was … seeing Maddie, Myf and I had decided to call it a day. She was worried about hurting her parents, her husband's parents, and everyone else she could think of, so I thought, why not? It was just sex with Maddie. With Myf it's .. closer to what you and Dad have."

Well, he'd sucked her in with that comment, hadn't he? Ruth couldn't help but smile. "For your sakes I hope there are less long silences and stamping of feet."

"I take it that's from Dad and not from you." Graham looked up at her with a glint in his eyes.

Ruth nodded. "Your father is sometimes a difficult man, but I find that in the final analysis, he's worth it."

"Around a week ago Myf called me to say she's ready to leave her husband. She wants us to get a place together and live together. I want that, but I'm hardly in a position to pull my weight in the partnership. I mean, I only work part time, I have no car, I share house with a bunch of sweaty mates, and I regularly visit my father."

"But surely she already knows all that."

"She does, and she said she doesn't care. She earns good money, and doesn't mind helping to support me. I'm not sure I feel comfortable about being supported."

Ruth sat back in her chair and watched this man who so resembled his father. Her mind raced ahead. As she saw the situation, she and Harry had the solutions Graham needed. Dare she tell him? What if he reacted in the same way Harry would react? The son was certainly a chip off the old block. The apple hadn't fallen far from the tree. Like father, like son. She couldn't remember all the myriad sayings which would describe the uncanny similarity between Harry and Graham.

"I think that your dad and I may be able to help you."

"I don't want your charity."

"Perhaps not, but if this woman leaves her marriage to live with you then you are going to need it."

And so Ruth shared with Graham the offer she and Harry had planned. By the time Ruth had outlined the whole plan, Graham had moved from sulky to half-listening, and then to interest, and finally barely concealed enthusiasm. "You'd do that for me?"

"It's Harry's idea. The car will belong to you, and there are no strings, and no expectation that you pay Harry back."

"Even if I want to?"

"You still owe money to your mother, so it's hardly practical."

"What about the flat? He can't just give that to me."

"No, and he won't. Harry and I will own it. It will be our investment property, and you will be expected to pay rent. When you move on, then it will still be ours, but for as long as you look after it and need it, you'll be free to live there."

Graham sat back in his chair and watched Ruth closely. Then he said something that perhaps had a grain of truth to it. "You know, Ruth … had Dad not been with you, I very much doubt he'd be making me such a generous offer."

"The car was his idea, but I encouraged it. His main concern was that you would refuse his offer of help."

"Had you not been the one to make the offer, I no doubt would have refused it."

Oh, how much like his father was he? Stubborn, obstinate, self-defeating, often irrational; yes, Graham was most definitely his father's son.

* * *

They met Harry in a small pub only two blocks from Sarah's restaurant. Harry had looked for flats for sale. Apart from the requirement that the flat be close to the restaurant, as well as Great Yarmouth College, it also needed to have safe parking for residents' cars.

"You're making massive assumptions, Dad," Graham had said, scrolling through the flats for sale in the area.

"Only that you'll be offered an apprenticeship. I expect that to happen."

Graham looked up at him, his eyes flashing in much the same way Harry's did when he was angry. "Working in a kitchen is difficult enough, but when there are personality clashes, it's the last one hired who gets shown the door."

Harry knew that to be so, so he kept any further comments to himself.

"Perhaps we need to look at cars first," Ruth said, hoping that her calm approach would cool the air between father and son.

By four in the afternoon Harry had bought a 2010 Suzuki Swift in bright red for Graham, and they had inspected five flats, and Ruth and Harry had submitted an offer on one – a second storey, two-bedroom apartment, which was clean and newly redecorated. Graham was so rapt with the car that he was happy to live anywhere at all, so long as he didn't have to share a bathroom with three other men. "I'll pay you back," he said, eyeballing Harry.

"You don't have to, son. It's a gift to you .. for all the times I was too busy to give you the attention you craved."

"Perhaps when I've dumped Harry in one of those homes for the aged and confused you can assist me with the fees," Ruth said with a distinct twinkle in her eye.

Graham grinned and reached out his hand. "That's a deal," he said, and he and Ruth shook hands, while Harry looked from one to the other, hoping they were joking.

* * *

"You _were_ joking, weren't you?" Harry asked, as he turned the car off the A12.

"About what?" As if she didn't know. Harry had been bursting from the effort of holding in his enquiry ever since they had left Graham in Yarmouth.

"You know what, Ruth."

Of course she did. She was just playing with him. "You mean the reference I made to putting you in a nursing home." It was a statement and not a question. Harry said nothing. Ruth knew it was down to her to put things right. "I'd only consider that were I to no longer be able to care for you, or .. if you began to get difficult."

"Difficult? Me? I'm a lamb."

"Of course you are," she replied, reaching across to place her palm on his thigh. Harry took his left hand from the wheel and quickly squeezed her hand, and then lifted it and placed it back on her lap. "Sorry," she said quietly.

"Don't be sorry, Ruth. Save the affection for when we get home."

They travelled in near silence, and once they arrived home Harry began preparing dinner.

"Can we talk first?" Ruth asked, wearily placing her bag on a chair.

"Sure," he said, "but look at that."

Ruth followed Harry's gaze, and there on the bottom stair, curled in a ball, was Misty the kitten. "She was there when I came down the stairs first thing this morning," Ruth said. "I think she was waiting for me. We'll have to watch where we put our feet."

Harry sat at the table opposite Ruth, waiting for her to begin, so she sat in the chair next to where she'd dumped her bag. Hearing a small squeak behind her, Ruth turned her head to see Misty crossing the floor from the foot of the stairs. "I don't know why we bother with a pet bed," she said. "Misty never uses it." with that, the kitten took a leap at Harry's trousered leg and clung to him, her claws grabbing at the material of his trousers, and clearly through to his skin.

"Bloody hell!" he called out, and then reached down to detach Misty from his leg.

"Careful. You'll frighten her."

"Frighten her? She just took around five years off my life."

"She's gorgeous."

"Gorgeous, but lethal."

"If you say so."

"Oh, right, so it's two females against one poor male."

"You're hardly a `poor male'."

Harry had already lifted Misty and held her on his lap, curtailing her wandering tendencies with his hands. "She'll settle down now," he said as he stroked the back of her head with one finger.

"I'm planning to spend the next three months writing," Ruth began, "solidly. The novel has a firm plan – which my editor has okayed – and I would like to have it ready to submit for publication by mid September."

"That's only a little over three months."

"I know, but I know my characters, so writing it should be a breeze from here on. Angela emailed me yesterday suggesting September next year for the launch. So, once I've sent it off, I will be in desperate need of a holiday."

Harry grinned at her. He liked that idea. He liked it a lot. "How about Paris?" he said softly. "I've always wanted to take you there."

"I'll be happy with anywhere, so long as you are with me."

From threatening to dump him in a nursing home to saying something like that. How had she managed to wrap him around her finger like that? He sighed and then smiled. "I'll do some online research then, shall I?"

Ruth nodded. "There's just one more thing." Harry lifted his eyebrows. "I'm planning to write for at least six hours each day, longer if the muse remains. I'm a little worried about you. How will you spend your time?"

Harry sat back in his chair, a slight frown drawing his eyebrows together. "I wasn't going to tell you this right now, but … perhaps this is the right time."

Ruth felt her stomach drop. The worst possible news would be that he was considering doing contract work for MI5. He was much too old, he was out of practise, and she needed him at home. When she shared her concerns he smiled across the table at her. "That's not quite the kind of contract work I'm about to embark upon," he said carefully. "I'm about to begin my first assignment. While you're busy in your office, I've set up my laptop in the living room."

"Doing what? Harry, don't tell me what you'll be doing is dangerous. We plan to live peacefully into old age, remember?"

"I've found it difficult to simply go cold turkey. The section chief who replaced me – her name is Erin Watts – has asked me to do some investigating into our own government. She's uncomfortable having the work done from Thames House, but I can do it from here. She suspects that our Home Secretary is .. dodgy."

"They're all dodgy, Harry. You were the one to teach me that."

"This isn't necessarily anti-terrorist work, but it's relevant. What if the worst of the terrorists are on our side? What if what we're doing in the Middle East, in Syria and elsewhere is inciting terrorism on our shores?"

"I consider that a given. What can she do about it when you prove her suspicions correct?"

"Erin can pretend to comply."

Ruth gave a small laugh, which stopped when she noticed that Harry was serious. "You don't mean resist, do you?"

"No, Ruth. Resisting was what I did. Even with Towers, the last Home Secretary -"

"The tubby one with a quaint turn of phrase?"

"That's the one. As politicians go, he was a decent man, but there were times when I had to .. resist his wishes, and look for alternative solutions."

"Is this to be like Wikileaks? Will you be the new Julian Assange, or Edward Snowden?"

"God, I hope not. This work will be soft by comparison to their contribution."

"And what will happen to the evidence you have on Tony Blair and Co?"

"At this stage, nothing. I'm not a whistle blower, Ruth. I value my life here with you, and I have no wish to be throwing it away, even for a good cause."

Ruth stared through the window to the back garden where quite heavy drizzle was falling. "And in your spare time you'll be building a glass house around the vegetable garden." Harry nodded. "So between protecting our emerging vegetable patch and protecting me, you'll still be saving the world."

"That's the theory, Ruth."

Ruth turned her eyes to him and watched him for a few moments. He was more than an aging man who was kind and caring and passionate. He was her own personal knight in shining armour, and she wouldn't want him to be any other way.

"Just keep me informed," she said, and he nodded.

"I have every intention of doing so."


	22. Chapter 22

_**A/N : This is the second last chapter, and it ****slides into an M rating towards the end. Avert your eyes if it may offend.**_

* * *

North Suffolk – 3 weeks later – afternoon:

Ruth was beginning to fade. It usually happened at around the same time each day, when she'd look for something – anything – to distract her. She sat back in her chair, arched her back to stretch her muscles, and gazed through the window to where the new growth in the back garden smiled under the sun's rays. Harry had completed half the glass structure over and around the vegetable garden before running out of materials and enthusiasm. Despite Graham's offer to help, he had avoided the task while hiding away in the living room each day busily working on his laptop. He'd been unusually secretive about his work, and yet Ruth knew that once he had found a thread of activity he would share his findings with her.

Ruth had enjoyed their few weeks with just the two of them, as they rubbed against each other, trying to find how best to live together in relative harmony. Most days straight after breakfast they would take a walk together, usually to the beach and along the sand, after which they'd head to their respective work stations until Harry decided it was time for a coffee break. Lunch was most often a half hour spent together either in the kitchen or at the table in the back garden, weather allowing. Ruth worked from nine-thirty in the morning until around four o'clock. After that she gave herself free time until they retired to bed. It was a rhythm which suited her, and she and Harry would meet and talk at several break times during the day. They had been apart for so long that neither wished to spend too long away from the other. They were individuals in their own right, but together they were perhaps greater than the sum of their separate selves.

Which is not to say that their union was without conflict. Only a week earlier they had taken some disagreement or other to bed with them, only to continue the discussion there, where it had become heated. Harry's face had flushed with frustration and contained anger, when Ruth lifted the duvet, preparing to leave the bed.

"If you leave the room in the middle of this, before we've resolved this, I'll -"

"You'll what, Harry? Force me to stay in the bedroom? Then you'll have to clean up after me when I wet the bed. I'm on my way to the toilet."

And she'd flounced from the bedroom, dawdling in the bathroom to kill time, so that by the time she returned to Harry they had both calmed down.

"I'm sorry I lost my temper," he'd said as she'd entered the bedroom, and a quick glance at his face showed her that he'd meant it. He had appeared both contrite and afraid.

Ruth had climbed into bed and then slid across the mattress to lean against his arm. "Me too," she'd said, pressing her face into his shoulder.

Ruth noticed a mug of something on the wooden table outside, and then she saw Harry walk into view as he examined all the new plants, touching the leaves of some, and bending down to examine others more closely. He was dressed in a short sleeved polo shirt with light coloured chinos, and to Ruth's practised eye he appeared happy and relaxed. She enjoyed watching him unseen; it was one of the many pleasures of sharing a house with him. As though he was aware of her eyes on him he suddenly turned and looked right at her, his eyes almost burning through the glass as he watched her. Then he smiled and with a barely perceptible tipping of his head indicated that she should join him, pointing to his drink on the table beside the walnut tree.

Ruth needed no further invitation. She saved her work, closed the lid of her laptop and reached to where Misty lay curled in a ball in the narrow space between her laptop and the wall, scratched behind the kitten's ears, and then she headed to the kitchen. She poured herself a coffee before joining Harry beside the table in the back garden.

"I think that once we've finished our coffee it might be time for a proper drink," Harry said, staring at Ruth, hoping she would be the one to suggest they crack open a bottle of wine, or even better, pour them each several fingers of single malt.

"I love this time of day," she said, gazing across the garden to the unfinished glass house.

Harry continued to watch her, enjoying a moment of Ruth-watching, something he had missed while she'd been away. "I have news," he said softly, turning to sit on one side of the table, carefully placing his mug on the uneven wooden surface.

"Good news, I hope."

"I believe so." Harry waited while Ruth turned and joined him at the table, sitting across him. "It looks like my London house has a buyer .. a serious one this time."

Ruth held her mug of coffee between her hands and offered him a warm smile. "That _is_ good news."

"It means we can at last make an offer on that apartment in Great Yarmouth."

"I'm relieved the first offer we made wasn't accepted."

"Me too."

"You know, Harry, I could have covered the deposit and the first few months' payments."

Harry stared across the back wall to the trees, attempting to curb his ready temper. For him it was a matter of pride. His son, his responsibility.

"Pride won't keep you warm at night, Harry, and it won't pay the bills." How did she do that? It was as if she could read his every private thought. "And I seem to remember us having a conversation about being equals in this partnership. You can't have it both ways."

He turned back to give her a look of warning, but since she wasn't looking his way it was time to change the subject. He drank the last of his coffee and placed the cup on the table. Ruth was momentarily distracted by a small bird which swooped close to them. Her light laughter lifted his spirits .. as it always did.

"There's something else," he began, "and I also consider it to be good news, but in a different way." Ruth looked from the branches above them back to him. "I've been following the communications out of the office of the HS .. both from her own office, and any private communications I can access. There's an … interesting pattern emerging."

"Malcolm has been saying all along that he doesn't trust Judith Sinclair."

"She has regular contact with Oliver." Harry's voice was so quiet that Ruth asked him to repeat what he'd said. "You heard me, Ruth. I think she's running him."

" _Running_? But she's the Home Secretary."

Harry nodded slightly, twisting his lips. "What she appears to be doing is giving Oliver a series of tasks, all of which add up to him being run by her."

"Can she do that?"

"I'm not sure, but she is anyway. Her code name is Hey Jude." Ruth pull a face. "Of course, once I found the connection she had with Oliver I had to check … whether .."

".. he was acting on her orders when he sent Pavlović to the UK."

"Yes." Harry's voice was very quiet.

"And was he?"

Harry shook his head. "The week Pavlović left Croatia for the UK she was instructing Mace about some Russian connections. The Russian family who visited here in 2011 left in a hurry, their dealings here unfinished. Judith Sinclair gave Oliver the task of convincing them – or their replacements - to return. I haven't yet been able to work out why. She doesn't offer Oliver reasons."

Ruth sat back in her chair watching Harry closely. She could see no sign that his mention of the Russians was painful for him. "And how successful was he?" she asked.

"As far as I can determine, not very. The HS is not well pleased."

"So," Ruth mused, turning her head to see Misty perched on the windowsill of her office, peering through the window at her, "Pavlović was a private task."

"It looks that way. It no longer affects us, Ruth," Harry added, "if in fact it ever did."

"I have Derek Mitchell to thank for my continuing freedom, haven't I?"

Harry nodded, knowing she was right. Mace appeared to believe that Ruth was dead. "Now how about a proper drink?" he asked.

She nodded. "I feel we've earned it."

* * *

North Yorkshire, 2 months later – Saturday August 10th 2013 – mid afternoon:

Catherine Townsend stood where she could see through the kitchen window as she surveyed the scene on the back lawn of her father's house. It had not been her first visit to Harry's and Ruth's house – more Gothic hideaway than country cottage – but this visit was proving to be more illuminating than her previous quick trip the previous month. For a start, she couldn't remember any other time in her life when her father had appeared so contented. Harry had always been a man of moods, his chief one being a level of melancholy which he draped around himself like a shroud. She had few memories of him laughing or playing with her. Retirement had lifted the deep sadness, but the key reason for his happiness appeared to be Ruth.

Catherine looked across the garden to where her brother, Myf and Ruth were surveying the vegetable garden. Ruth would say something, and then Graham or Myf would reply, their eyes shining with ready laughter. Sitting at the table was her dad and Malcolm, the two old spooks deep in conversation. They always seemed to have so much to talk about. Behind her in the kitchen Malcolm's partner, Dawn was making a pot of tea while chatting about her recent trip to France.

"Does Malcolm like France?" Catherine asked, her gaze still on the people in the back garden.

"He won't take time off to travel with me. I have yet to find somewhere he wants to visit badly enough to leave his blessed computer."

Catherine turned and smiled. She envied these people – Graham and Myf, Dawn and Malcolm, her father and Ruth. She was usually the one with a partner, and Graham and her father had each spent a long time as single men. She liked to think of herself as being between boyfriends, but her live-in relationship with Gabriel had ended so badly that she swore to never love anyone ever again. But she missed it; she missed him. She missed his warm feet in bed at night. She missed his terrible jokes, and she missed being able to turn to him and share some small thought as it had entered her head. She missed the way he had been so proud of her, and praising of her work. She knew there were other men in the world. She just wasn't yet ready to explore the possibility of loving another.

A loud knock on the front door shook her out of her reverie. She turned to Dawn. "That'll be Harry's co-workers," Dawn said. "The young ones."

"Dad has co-workers?"

"I think the word is `had'," Dawn said, before hurrying to the door.

* * *

With the arrival of Erin, Dimitri and Calum, the noise level escalated. "I hope we don't wake the neighbours," Calum said as he cracked open a bottle of red wine.

"What neighbours?" Harry asked.

"You must have neighbours. Everyone does."

"Not everyone."

No sooner had he been ushered outside than Dimitri sought out Ruth. He looked around at the people gathered – Harry, Malcolm, Dawn, Graham, Myf and Catherine – and he immediately knew which one was the woman who had floored Harry Pearce. He made a beeline for her, his eyes never leaving her. "I'm Dimitri Levendis," he said, holding out his hand, "and you look like you might be Ruth."

"I might be and I am," Ruth replied, shaking his hand and smiling up at him. He was a very tall man, and with gentle eyes. Ruth wondered how it was so many kind and gentle men – such as this man, such as Harry and Malcolm – had spent their working lives in such a violent and risky environment. "You're MI6," she said, and he nodded.

"I've taking leave," he said. "My dad is sick and only has a few months to live."

Across the lawn Harry listened while Erin filled him on what she knew about the comings and goings of their Home Secretary, while one part of him watched Ruth's exchange with Dimitri. Ruth seemed so relaxed with the younger man. She had once told him that while she was with a man who posed no threat she felt able to relax. He just didn't want her relaxing too much.

"Until the investigation is over," he heard Erin say, "Ed Richardson is acting Home Secretary, but you already knew that, didn't you?"

Harry nodded, flicking his eyes towards Erin. He was spared having to provide an answer by a heavy hand landing on his shoulder. "It's your favourite agent," Calum said, stepping beside him. "I've missed you, Harry."

"It's been almost two years," he replied calmly.

"Erin's fine as section head, but god, she's a slave driver!"

"I clearly didn't push you hard enough."

"Have you told him about the Russians?" Calum asked Erin, who shook her head slowly, warning in her eyes. Taking the hint, he changed the subject. "That little blond woman over by the tree, Harry. How about an introduction?"

Harry turned to see Graham, his arm around the waist of the brunette, Myf, and both were in conversation with Catherine. "Over my dead body," was all he said, and he turned and crossed the lawn to join his two children.

"What did I say?"

"I think the woman you were about to hit on, Cal, is Harry's precious daughter. He won't allow you within touching distance of her."

"So why invite me? Harry knows what I'm like."

"Which is why he's over there now, warning her about you."

Once Harry joined his two children and Myf, Graham peeled off from the group to seek out Ruth. She was talking with the tall, dark-haired spy guy. Why were they all so bloody good looking? He'd seen images of his father as a young man, and he could understand how Harry had found it difficult to keep it in his trousers. Women had probably thrown themselves at him.

Ruth smiled as he joined her and Dimitri. "Graham, this is Dimitri. Dimitri, Graham is Harry's son." The two men shook hands, and then Dimitri left to introduce himself to Malcolm and his partner. "How's .. everything?" Ruth asked, not wanting to be too specific.

"So far, so good," he said carefully.

"But?"

"There's a but?"

"In your tone was a definite but," Ruth answered.

Graham sighed heavily, something Harry often did. "Living together isn't easy, is it?"

Ruth smiled warmly. "No, it's not. Like anything, to do it successfully requires practice ... and a lot of patience and tolerance."

"We .. argue a lot."

"Do you resolve your arguments?"

"We end them by .. you know, having sex."

"Eventually you'll have to resolve whatever it was you were arguing about."

"I know. Myf hates arguing. She's so scared we'll break up that she avoids the conflict."

"Just be patient, Graham." He nodded, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

At that moment they were joined by Myf, so Ruth immediately changed the subject.

At the wooden table in the middle of the lawn sat Malcolm, Dawn and Dimitri, who were deep in conversation. When Harry joined them, the conversation stopped. "Don't stop on my account," he said. As he sat he noticed that three pairs of eyes were on him. He glanced around to find Ruth, and she was still at the back of the garden, this time with Graham and Myf.

"We were just about to announce the formal part of proceedings."

"Formal?"

"The cutting of the cake," Malcolm added, "metaphorically speaking."

"Of course."

"I could have made a cake," Dawn added, frowning slightly. "You didn't warn me that there was to be anything formal. I would have dressed up." She smiled across the table at Malcolm. Clearly her comment meant something to him, as it meant nothing at all to Harry and Dimitri.

"Would you like me to do the honours?" Dimitri asked.

"I think, as someone who has known both Ruth and Harry for some time, it should be me," Malcolm said, slowly standing, and then calling to Ruth for her to sit at Harry's side.

What followed was a bewildering, but warming display of friendship, love and loyalty, as Dimitri opened several bottles of champagne, which Dawn had had to slide out of sight in the back of the fridge. Ruth and Harry sat in silence, holding hands under the table while Malcolm conducted a toast, "To this house, and may it house and protect Ruth and Harry for as long as they need it."

There were cries of `to the house', `to Ruth and Harry', `to us', and then when someone mentioned the queen, Ruth called a stop to it. "The queen is being well looked after, thank you," she said.

With that, Harry lifted his glass and turned to Ruth. "You're my queen," he said, and in the silence which had followed Ruth's objection to the queen needing to be toasted, everyone heard him, and sounds of `Ahhh' were heard, closely followed by Calum calling for a toast to Ruth, which they all followed, except Ruth and Harry, who were sharing a not-so-private kiss.

"To the intelligence service," Calum cried, once the kiss ended.

"Anything but the bloody intelligence service," Dimitri replied.

"I was only trying to help."

* * *

It was almost ten o'clock and Ruth had gone upstairs to shower. The last of their visitors – Graham, Myf and Catherine – had decided to head back to Graham's new apartment and continue their socialising there. Harry stacked the last of the dirty plates in the dishwasher and then followed Ruth upstairs.

While he was hoping for a cuddle and perhaps more under the shower, as he was about to step into the shower, Ruth stepped out. "You're not staying?"

"Bed beckons," was all she said as she grabbed her towel and wrapped it around her.

Ruth was tired, but not to the point of exhaustion. She dressed in brief black knickers and a white see-through camisole, and crawled under the duvet with a book. When Harry entered the bedroom she lifted her eyes to see him removing his dressing gown, underneath which he was naked. He slipped under the duvet, his expression hopeful.

"That went well," he said, turning to face her, resting his head on his arm.

"What? The shower?"

"That went well also. I was talking about the house warming."

"Mmm," she said, "and I'm glad they all left early."

"Me too." He slid just a little closer to her, a smile lifting the edges of his mouth.

Ruth was prepared to play along, but decided she'd not give in too easily. Harry shuffled closer to her and leaned across to kiss her, a tender, lingering kiss. Despite her resolve, Ruth felt herself moaning as he kissed her. She pulled away, and looked into his eyes. "Mmm," she said, "your very best physical feature."

Predictably for him, Ruth felt Harry press himself against her skin, his cock hardening slowly against her thigh. "I know," he said, a sly smile on his lips.

"I was talking about your mouth."

By this time, Harry's hand was wandering under her camisole, his fingers feathering across the skin of her abdomen, setting her whole abdominal area on fire. Ruth was finding that logical thought was eluding her. So much for resolutions.

When she felt his fingers slip under the waistband of her knickers, she rolled onto her back and sighed. _I'm such a pushover,_ she thought. Harry slid his fingers back and forth across her folds, occasionally dipping one finger inside her, but only for a tantalising moment. "Do you know what I consider to be your best feature?" he asked, his voice low and husky, his face close to her own. Ruth shook her head, not caring too much about her own best features. Harry seemed to like them all, which was what mattered. "Your eyes," he said, smiling as he dipped two fingers inside her and stroked her slowly. "Your beautiful, stormy eyes."

The power of speech was fast leaving her. "You smell wonderful," was all she managed to say before she closed her eyes and went with what Harry's fingers were doing inside her body, lifting her towards an inevitable climax. And then he stopped, and her eyes flew open. "Bastard," she said, turning to glare at him.

"Do you know what else I find is a fine physical feature of yours?" he said, removing his hand from inside her knickers, and slowly glancing his fingertips up her abdomen until he reached one breast, where he caressed the skin around her nipple.

"Oh, that's so predictable. All men like breasts."

"Your shoulders. Every time you bare them I want to do this," and he bent down and sank his teeth into the skin of her shoulder. It was not a serious bite, but it was enough to draw her attention away from what he was doing with his fingers, which still circled her breast, with the occasional pinch of her nipple. She sighed, knowing he had won her over.

With eyes still closed Ruth reached under the duvet until her fingers touched his belly. Then she trailed them down his skin until she reached pubic hair. She turned to get closer to him, glancing her fingertips along his cock, now almost fully erect, until she reached his balls. She felt him tense slightly, but she cradled then gently in her hand, rolling them across her fingers. "Not my prettiest feature," he said, his breath coming in gasps.

"Perhaps not, but ..." Harry waited, but she said nothing more, returning her fingers along the path they had taken to reach his balls. She absently circled his lower abdomen with her fingers, to which he responded with a long sigh. He wouldn't be able to tolerate much more of it without taking things further. "I love your stomach," she said at last.

"Why?"

"Because it's the largest part of you, other than your heart."

Harry drew his eyebrows together. "The largest part of me? I beg to differ, Ruth."

Ruth chuckled, occasionally interrupting her exploration of his stomach to quickly slide a finger along his cock, which had him drawing in a quick, steadying breath. "You can be _so_ predictable," she said, smiling.

He lifted her hand from where she'd grasped his cock, very gently stroking along its length, and then turned over so that he almost covered her. He lifted the camisole above her head, placing his lips against the soft skin of her neck, and then slipped a hand under the duvet to find that she had already removed her knickers. He wanted to taste her, to sink his tongue into her, but he was so close to losing control over his own body that he couldn't risk it. "Ruth?" he asked, lifting his head to watch her while he slid two fingers inside her, setting up a slow rhythm, his thumb occasionally pushing against her clit.

"Please," she begged, her eyes closed. Harry felt her writhing beneath his hand, so he adjusted his body with one elbow each side of her, and then slowly pushed himself closer. The moment when he first entered her was always exciting for him. He took his time, moving slowly, pushing gently to reach deeper.

Then Ruth opened her eyes and looked right at him. This moment always occurred soon after they had begun moving together in the steady rhythm familiar to them. It was as though she could see right into him, into his darkest self, as well as the part of him which adored her completely. By this time he was already lost within her, and everything he did from then on was an unconscious prayer to her. She climaxed before he did, closing her eyes. Once he felt her undulate around him, he let go, and buried himself inside her as deeply as he could reach.

He collapsed beside her, his head next to hers on her pillow. Once they had both recovered enough to speak, he kissed her cheek, and then turned to her. She was watching him, her eyes wide.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Nothing," she said, "and everything."

* * *

Ruth was teetering on the edge of sleep when Harry spoke. "Malcolm told me something interesting today."

"Mm, what?" she mumbled.

"He and Dawn are thinking of getting married."

Ruth's eyes flew open, but given her back was turned to Harry, he couldn't see that she was now fully awake. "Was that a hint?" she asked after a long moment.

Harry tightened his grip on her hip. "What do you think?"

"I think this is a roundabout proposal."

"Can you blame me?"

Ruth smiled into the dark. "So you wait until I'm thoroughly loved up to mention this .. hoping that in my semi-comatose state I'd say: why don't we?"

"I guess that approach won't work now, will it?"

Ruth shuffled under the duvet, turning to face him. "It might were you to ask me directly."

"Do you think we should?"

"Should what? Go to sleep? Yes, I think that's best."

If he was being honest with himself, he was shocked by Ruth's lack of enthusiasm. He'd been hoping she'd jump at the idea. Didn't all women want to be married? Clearly not. "I love you," he said at last, rather lamely.

"And I love you, too."

She said nothing more, and rolled over, her back again towards him. Harry suppressed a sigh and reached out again to wrap his arm around her. He placed a soft kiss on her bare shoulder, not noticing the red marks from where he'd bitten her earlier. "Good night, Ruth." Ruth replied with a mumble which sounded a lot like, `coward'. "What?" he asked.

Again she turned, and this time she half sat up in bed, leaning her weight on one elbow while she looked at him, her expression unreadable. "You gave up rather easily, Harry," she said at last.

"You said we should go to sleep, so that was what I was doing."

"You didn't argue when I didn't play along. Sometimes I just want you to ..."

"What, Ruth? I have no idea what you want."

"I need you to say what you mean."

"But when I say what I mean we end up in an argument."

"Ask me to marry you, only this time make it a question to me, not a reference to another couple."

"Marry me, Ruth," he said quietly, holding her gaze.

Ruth waited for a very long time, and Harry could see she was giving his suggestion a lot of thought, which was a good sign. Her expression then softened, and she smiled. "I'll think about it," she said, "but the answer will probably be yes. I just don't think we should rush into anything. Besides, I make it a rule never to make major life decisions either during or immediately after sex."

Harry smiled at her, knowing what she had given him was as good as a yes. He nodded, and then reached across to kiss her. "I think we should sleep before we talk any more about this."

And so for the second time that night they shuffled into their usual positions for sleep. Harry squeezed her waist with his arm, and Ruth responded by resting one hand over his, threading her fingers between his. Within minutes they were both asleep.


	23. Chapter 23

_**A/N: This final chapter is for rosetintedblindspot whose Harry Birthday it is today.**_

 _ **Thank you to those who followed this story to the end, and as always, thank you to the kind reviewers. This is just fluff n' stuff.**_

* * *

North Suffolk – early September 2014:

"Have you heard from Graham?" Ruth asked, absently stroking Harry's hair while he watched the TV screen across the room, the sound muted. His ankles were crossed, his sock-covered feet resting on a cushion at the other end of the sofa, while his head lay in Ruth's lap, his full attention on _The Great British Bake Off._ "You didn't hear me, did you?"

"Why .. what did you say?"

Ruth grinned, and placing her hands on his cheeks she turned his head to that he had to look at her. "I do believe you have a thing for Mel Giedroyc. It's the pony tail, isn't it? I happen to know you love pony tails." Harry frowned up at her, and then slowly smiled. "I asked you whether you'd heard from Graham."

Very slowly Harry sat up, placing his feet on the floor. Then he sighed. "He's still coming to the book launch. He says he wouldn't miss it for -"

"Harry, you don't have to lie to me."

"I'm not. He'll be alone, though."

"What happened this time?"

"I'm not sure," Harry took a quick peek at the TV, deciding how much Ruth needed to know. "All he told me was that Myf had returned to live with her parents."

This time it was Ruth who sighed. Myf was lovely, but she seemed to not know what she wanted. Myf reminded Ruth of her younger self. "How is he?"

Harry turned to look at her, his gaze taking in far more than her appearance. "He sounded .. resigned to her not coming back this time." He reached across and took her hand in his own. "I think he's had enough. He's leaving the door open to her returning should she want to, but I believe he'd rather she ... stayed away." Harry watched Ruth closely. "There comes a time when a man can't take further rejection."

Harry's words hung in the air, swirling around them like an early morning fog. "I never rejected you, Harry. I did what I believed would maintain the status quo at MI5."

"I'm not talking about that, Ruth."

"Then what?"

Harry squeezed her hand. "When you turned down my second invitation to dinner -"

"You can't still be hurt over that."

"No, of course not, but I still remember the slight I felt at the time. I knew you wanted to have dinner with me again, and perhaps even more. When you said no it ... hurt." Ruth nodded, understanding. "All I'm saying is that I know how Graham feels. Sometimes it's far easier to have the object of your adoration out of your life than to endure her rejection."

"Is that how you felt while I was gone?" Harry nodded. "But you've said you missed me."

"Of course I did, but with you a long way from me I no longer had to bear your rejection. I could imagine that one day you'd be coming home .. to me."

This was all news to Ruth. She'd been so busy staying safe that she'd not stopped to think about how Harry must have felt. The knowledge that her sacrifice had saved Harry's job had kept her warm at night, knowing she had made the correct decision. She leaned towards him, and he wrapped his arms around her. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't know."

They stayed that way, holding one another, relieved to be together again. Meanwhile, _The Great British Bake Off_ finished, and Harry hadn't even noticed.

"Graham will be all right," Harry said at last. "He's resilient. When I spoke to him this morning he sounded .. relieved."

"But hurt."

"Yes."

"Were you relieved when I left London?"

"In a way, yes. I no longer had to think about why you wouldn't have dinner with me, or .. worry about the likelihood that you would meet someone else, someone more suited to you." Harry shifted slightly, turning to face Ruth, his arms still around her. "Graham will mend. He's faced more difficult challenges than this."

"At least he loves his job."

"Yes. I hadn't expected that."

"We should go to bed," Ruth suggested after some time.

"But it's only nine-thirty." She lifted one hand and lightly slapped his shoulder. "Ohh, you mean go to _bed_ ," he said with emphasis.

"What do you think?"

His smile said it all. He turned to Misty, curled up against the back of the sofa, her back turned to them. "What do you think, Misty?" The cat's ears twitched, but she remained curled in a ball.

* * *

As they drove away the following day, Ruth turned in her seat to take another look at their house. "Do you think she'll miss us?"

"Not a chance. We'll only be away for a week, and Miriam will check on her every couple of days. Besides, she has food, water and a cat flap -"

"- which you so expertly installed."

Harry grinned. The cat flap installation had almost resulted in him electrocuting himself, but they chose to not dwell on that. At least Misty was free to come and go. "And has afforded her the ability to bring home mice."

"And one rat."

Cocooned in the car together for a little over three and a half hours, they talked. Ruth's third novel, _The Incident In the Night,_ was in the final stage of editing, and she was taking a few months off before she began her fourth. During that time she and Harry would again take time out for travel, and then the following three months would be spent promoting _The Body On The Beach_ , her second and perhaps last story featuring Grace and Michael. Her agent had suggested she string their story out to another book, but Ruth had said all she needed to say about them. _The Incident In the Night_ opened with a car accident on a country lane, and a case of mistaken identity. The incident the previous year, when Graham's car had been stolen and the driver killed had provided fodder for her third book.

The previous twelve months had been busy, with them planning a European holiday once _The Body On The Beach_ had been completed. The plan was that they would leave England in mid October, and once they had travelled through Italy and Greece, Harry's sixtieth birthday would be spent in Paris. That plan had to be abandoned when, less than a week prior to departure Harry fell ill with the `flu.

"I hadn't known this about you, Harry," Ruth had complained when he coughed and moaned and blew his nose loudly. "I always believed you to be indestructible."

"I can't expect sympathy from you, then."

Two weeks later, on the eve of Harry's birthday, they took the Eurostar to Paris. They had their holiday in reverse order to their original plan. On the morning of Harry's sixtieth birthday, as they lay in bed, having just woken, Ruth turned to Harry and said, "I have a suggestion."

"You don't have to suggest that, Ruth. I'll always be up for it."

"It's not that. It's something else." She watched him closely before she continued. She needed him to be paying attention. "I think we should get married."

Well, she couldn't have surprised him more. Harry had believed he'd always be the one chasing her, suggesting holidays together, throwing in the occasional marriage proposal, and receiving a non-committal reply from her. What he hadn't known was that Ruth had been planning her proposal since he'd booked their holiday. He turned his head to look at her. "Are you serious?"

"Of course I'm serious. Marriage is a serious subject."

He had reached out beneath the duvet for her hand, grasping it tightly. "You know what this means, don't you, Ruth?"

"It means we'll be married."

"It means you'll be stuck with me."

"I know. I _have_ considered all the pros and cons, and the pros outweigh the cons by at least three to one."

Harry had watched her, waiting for her further assessment of the matter, but that seemed to be it. "This isn't terribly romantic," he observed.

"Isn't it? We're in bed together in a hotel in Paris. You're holding my hand, and I've just suggested marriage. When was the last time someone proposed marriage to you?"

She had a point. "Never. I had to beg Jane. She believed me to be too high a risk."

"There you are, then. I'm assuming that you agree with me."

"Of course. Shouldn't we … kiss, or something?"

So they'd kissed, and their pledge had been sealed. Harry had offered to buy Ruth an engagement ring, but she had wrinkled her nose at the suggestion. "I thought all women liked rings and flowers and chocolates and such," he said.

"I don't see us as being like other people, Harry. I'll be happy with just a wedding ring."

Early the following autumn they married quietly in the village church, where Ruth occasionally attended Sunday morning services. Present were Graham and Myf, Catherine and her partner, Dan, Malcolm and Dawn, and a smattering of villagers, some of whom had become friends, and others who were simply curious onlookers. The reception was held at _Honey's_ , the same restaurant Harry had taken Ruth for their second date. Their honeymoon had been four days in Paris. They were still the same two people – Harry Pearce and Emma Ruth – but they had pledged in front of friends to remain together until death parted them. Privately, Ruth had found that to be a grim reminder of their mortality, and so she had promised herself that she should make the most of the time they had together, whether that be thirty days or thirty years.

* * *

"That went well," Dawn said as she placed cups and saucers in front of her guests, while Malcolm headed through to the kitchen to make tea. Ruth and Harry were sleeping in Malcolm's spare room for a week while Ruth gave several radio interviews, and after some encouragement from Harry, two interviews on morning TV. "You didn't seem at all nervous, Ruth," Dawn added.

"I wasn't. All I had to do was read a passage from the book, and smile a lot, but I didn't much like having my photo taken without Harry."

"But I didn't write the book, Ruth. You did."

At the launch of _The Body On The Beach_ , Ruth had chosen to read her favourite passage, the one which began with the words, ` _Grace always knew when Michael was thinking of Thora and his old life; she could read it in his eyes as surely as were it written in bold, broad strokes of a pen_ _on a page_.' The story had a happy ending for Grace and Michael, but the shadow of Michael's former life in Kent often hovered between them, just as there were days when Ruth could detect in Harry a longing for his old life. She knew there were moments when he missed the cut and thrust and danger of MI5.

"Apart from the story itself," Malcolm said, having overheard their conversation from the kitchen, "my favourite part is written on the back inside cover."

"Mine, too," Harry said, smiling to himself, "especially the bit where they say you are married and living in the country with your husband, Harry, and one cat. It makes us sound so terribly normal."

"But we are normal," Ruth countered somewhat shyly.

" _My_ favourite part," added Dawn, her cup held between her fingers while she smiled across the table at Ruth, "is the dedication."

"It was Angela who convinced me I should add a dedication," she said. "I wasn't keen on it at first. I thought it sounded .. pretentious." She had discussed with each of the people sitting at the table the wisdom of dedicating the book to _"my d_ _ear_ _husband, Harry, without whom there would be no Grace and Michael story."_

"I think it's beautiful," Grace said, "an open declaration of love."

"I thought our marriage was that, but I suppose you're right," Ruth replied, wondering whether a slice of fruit cake would go directly to her hips.

"Graham seemed fine, despite .. everything," Malcolm ventured, the subject of Myf and her whereabouts having been avoided all evening.

Harry chanced a glance at Ruth, who carefully placed her cup of tea in its saucer, and made a private decision to forego the fruit cake. "He spoke to me this evening, and asked for my .. counsel. I don't know if what I suggested was the right thing at all, but I advised him to contact Myf and tell her that it's over between them, and that she shouldn't try to come back."

"Quite right," Dawn said strongly, while Malcolm nodded.

"How did he respond to that?" Harry asked.

"He .. agreed with me. He says it's much harder to wait around, wondering will she return. My thought is were he to end it himself, he'll be taking back power over his life."

"Bravo," said Dawn, lifting her tea cup as in a toast.

Ruth's eyes were on Harry, who was giving nothing away.

Later, when they were lying under the duvet in the dark, Ruth grasped Harry's hand and lightly squeezed his fingers. "Do you have something to say about what I told Graham?"

He'd taken so long to answer that she suspected he was already asleep. "Not really," he said at last. "What you said had me thinking about us .. back then, and .. I could never have given up on you."

"I wasn't suggesting Graham give up on Myf. He just needs to set some boundaries."

"And had I done that with you back all those years ago …?"

"I'd have panicked, and begged you to take me to dinner again."

Ruth turned her head to see Harry watching her. "I don't believe that, Ruth."

Ruth wasn't sure she did either, but she was not about to express such thoughts openly.

* * *

"Graham's here? Why?"

Eight days after the official launch of Ruth's second novel Harry drove them home, arriving mid afternoon. Harry drew his Lexus next to Graham's red Suzuki. "Didn't I tell you?" he said, turning to look at his wife, who had already opened the car door, and placed one foot on the ground.

"You know very well you didn't. Don't tell me this is another of your surprises, Harry. You know how I feel about surprises."

He joined her at the door, which opened to reveal Graham, one eyebrow lifted. Between his feet, Misty peeked out at them, and then recognising Ruth, the cat wound around her legs, almost tripping her. "Welcome home," Graham said, standing aside to let them in. "Here, give me that," he added, taking one of the bags from Harry's hand.

As they entered the living area, Ruth looked sideways at Harry's face to see him clearly avoiding eye contact with her. She knew something was up; she could almost smell it. "What's that piece of plaster doing on the floor?" she asked, pointing to a very small, white, irregularly-shaped object on the floor tiles.

Graham picked up the offending piece of solid white material between his fingers and placed it in the pedal bin in the kitchen. "I'm about to make a pot of coffee. Perhaps you can both .. wash up .. you know ... in the bathroom."

Ruth immediately sensed something odd about Graham's demeanour. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but there was _something_ not quite right. "Harry?" she said, turning to watch him. She found it hard to gauge Harry at the best of times, but she was sure he and Graham were in cahoots, and she didn't trust it at all.

"Come on," he said, reaching to take her hand. "Upstairs with you."

Harry almost dragged her up the stairs, and by the time they reached their bedroom door, Ruth knew that something was different. "It feels different up here," she said. "Someone has been up here."

Harry drew her past their bedroom, and when he reached the bathroom doorway he stepped back to allow Ruth through first. What she saw had her gasping. "Did you arrange this?" she asked, turning to find him standing right behind her. He smiled and nodded. "You know I hate surprises," she said, smiling up at him.

"But I knew you'd like this one." Ruth nodded, reaching out to again grasp his hand. In place of the old bath, there was a new, roomy bathtub, surely big enough to fit them both with room to spare. It was white and bright and beautiful, and took up extra floor space, so that the hand basin had had to be moved. "They worked through the night to finish it in time for our return," Harry explained, "which is why Graham is still here. The plumber only left two hours ago."

"It's lovely, but why the large shelf between the bath and the wall?"

"Graham told me that's for candles, but I imagine we can bring drinks up here – wine and such." Harry stepped behind her, sliding his arms around her to pull her against him. His action was tempting, even provocative, but they could not succumb, despite having had little time for each other in the previous week. "Graham's downstairs," she said, as Harry kissed her neck.

"He is. He's cooking us a roast."

"He's staying?"

"Not likely. He has a date."

Very carefully Ruth pulled away, turning to face him. "With Myf?"

Harry shook his head and smiled. "With someone he met on the weekend. Her name is Emily."

"So he's trying to move on." Harry nodded. "Then let's hope he's better at it than you were."

Harry grimaced, again drawing her closer, his hands on her hips. "In retrospect, I don't think I was really trying."

"That's good."

"It was. No-one compares to you, Ruth."

"I think there's a song which goes something like that."

"There usually is."

"Sinéad O'Connor."

"Her name's Emily."

"No .. the song. It's sung by Sinéad O'Connor."

"I wouldn't know. I only know the important things."

"You certainly do. Shall we -"

"- head downstairs? I think we should."

And they did.

And Graham left soon after, and so after dinner they tried out the new bathtub. It was perfect.

"I wonder can I feature this bathtub in my next novel," Ruth mused, as she leaned her back against Harry's solid body.

"I'm sure you'll find a way, Ruth."

And she did.

 _Fin_


End file.
